


reconnoiter

by harcourt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate A/B/O mechanics, I wrote this for the kinkmeme, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, OT6, Sex Toys, discussions of consent, longfic_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11065.html?thread=24657977#t24657977">this</a> prompt, where alpha, beta, or omega position in a pack is determined through fighting.</p><p>
  <i>[Clint's] never been an omega before, hadn't really been considering it a possibility before now, so he's pretty terrible at doing what he's supposed to. Steve's had pack before, so he helps Clint get sorted. The worst part of that, to Clint, is that Steve is just so nice about it. Sweet and caring. No one on the team is being an ass about it. He just doesn't know what to do with the fact that everyone is always patting his shoulder, or giving him a hug when he leaves, etc.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also for my [longfic_bingo squares](http://harcourt.dreamwidth.org/6611.html) A/B/O and Oral Sex.

Clint loses by some kind of bizarre plan conflict, his and Natasha's coming together at the same moment as someone else's--probably Tony's. The man just smells of chaos and plan dismemberment--does, and interacting in a way that ends with Natasha dangling from Thor's big stupid fist by an ankle and Clint getting bounced into a wall, and then Steve and then the floor. 

There's a second of sudden stillness when everyone realizes that the stakes are suddenly a lot lower, and Natasha takes the opportunity to twist, kick Thor in the face, and take Bruce and Tony down in one possibly accidental strike when she's tossed aside. She rolls to her feet and bounces away and then it's her and Steve and Thor and that's okay. She's not going to win, probably, but she's positioned well enough. Clint just really, really doesn't want Thor to be alpha, even if for no reason other the potential weirdness of that situation.

He's busy trying to hex Thor--sending jinx vibes in his direction for all he's worth--when Tony rolls sideways into him and tips his head back to regard him with a weird, upside-down expression, but whatever he's going to say is cut off when Thor somehow trips over Natasha while he grapples with Steve and hits the floor close enough to where Clint's sitting with Tony that they bounce a little. 

"Well hey, Red," Tony says, instead of whatever it was he was going to say to Clint, and gives Natasha a thumbs-up over Thor's fallen body. Clint kicks him for distracting her, but Natasha smiles and bows out, _giving_ it to Steve, the sneak. Undermining his win, since hers is unlikely as hell now that she doesn't have any more pawns in the game to throw, trip and bounce at each other.

"Yeah, no surprise there," Tony says, with a mock grumble, still leaning on Clint. Clint shoves him off, ignoring the way Tony's head hits the floor with a gentle _clunk_. 

Steve looks like he doesn't know what to say, now that he's won his top dog alpha spot. He looks a little awkward, standing there at a loss, and then he says, "Omega--?" like he'd missed that whole production, and Tony, still lying flat on the floor, quickly touches his finger to his nose and says,

"Not it."

"Not it," Clint echoes sourly, but doesn't bother moving because even though Bruce fails to participate in the opt-out, he probably still _is_ it.

"This is pretty unexpected," Bruce is telling Tony, sounding pleased, "I'm _always_ the omega."

"Ah. And _there's_ that correlation with last picked for kickball," Tony muses giving Bruce a considering look, even though they'd both wiped out at the same time and not in a dignified way either, and gives Clint a pat as he starts to stiffly get up, "Not you though, Barton. I'm sure you were a kickball _champion_."

Clint flips him off.

\-----

He's not that big, but he's always been scrappy, so he's always landed himself somewhere in the beta hierarchy--the amorphous middle that's always jostling for a space up or getting bumped down--and he's seen omegas be scented before, but he's never had to _do_ it.

So it's a bit weird to stand there with Steve carefully tipping his head one way and then the other, one hand around his throat, but gently. More cradling his jaw than anything. It's like Steve's taking some kind of weird inventory, looking him over carefully before dipping his head to inhale against Clint's hair, against the angle of his jaw, the crook of his shoulder, and Clint's never seen this done this slowly before. He's about to duck away before Steve can bite him or something, but Steve's other hand is wrapped around his upper arm, and Clint shafts the escape plan he's reflexively formulating. It's probably better to get it over with anyway.

Steve makes a soft sound, a quiet laugh into the side of his head, before he leaves an unthinking kiss there and straightens. Steve's already giving off alpha-scent, probably hopped up on the fucking joy of victory, even though Clint would have thought that Natasha's opt-out would have kicked that adrenaline spike in the shins somewhat. 

But Steve doesn't seem fazed at all, even though she's stolen his opportunity to beat his chest in victorious triumph or whatever it was that Steve did when he actually got to win the final round rather than having it _whatever_ -ed over to him by someone who either didn't think the final effort was worth it, or who--maybe--declined to be the final authority in charge of lunatics like Stark and Thor.

"Clint." Steve still has a laugh in his voice. He's either pleased with himself or really amused, but his brow has a weird little furrow in it that's somewhere between concern and apologetic. It's not a very I-just-cinched-alpha look. "You look like someone just shot your dog," he says, and, "Come on. I know it's not _that_ bad," and his hand leaves Clint's jaw and throat to squeeze his shoulder in a companionable way. Very friendly and casual and Clint eyes it suspiciously before looking back up at him. Steve's kind of a big guy. 

"Yeah?" Clint says, and points out, "I just lost to Bruce and Tony." Even ignoring the omega thing, it's still pretty embarrassing. Tony's not exactly a human weapon without his suit, and Bruce is awkward and vaguely nerdy in a way that just screams _easy takedown_. 

"Hey," Tony objects, and points at Bruce like he needs to defend his buddy's fighting prowess, "He's a Hulk, you know."

"Technically, we all lost to Natasha," Bruce says, ignoring Tony, "Just with staggered timing. If it makes you feel any better." 

"And only on a fluke," Tony adds, then decides to back Bruce up and says, "Or you could consider us defeated by Thor's spy-bowling. Whatever helps you feel competent and athletic again."

Clint gives him a narrow eyed look, and says, "Right," in as sarcastic a tone as he can manage with Steve getting up in his space. He's probably supposed to be having some kind of reaction to the combination of Steve's alpha-radiating proximity and the hormone-depressing effects of getting his ass kicked--fluke or no--but he feels pretty normal. Maybe it's because he still can't process the fact that he _did_ lose. Or maybe he just can't process that _fuck_ , Tony's a beta _over him_.

Even the expectation of how obnoxious that's going to be is obnoxious.

\-----

Steve gives him a weird look and lets him go when he says, "Bite me and I'm biting you back."

"I'm not going to _bite you_ , Clint," he says, in a tone that should come with an eye roll, but doesn't. It's not exactly the advance that Clint's preparing for and it takes the wind out of his sails a little. 

"Or whatever," he says, keeping the threat in his voice. He might never have been an omega before, but he knows how it goes. No matter how normal he feels right now, there's an initial heat on the way--triggered by Steve's alpha scent and whatever the fuck it is that simply getting bounced to the ground before anyone else sets off--and it's better to lay down the law now rather than later, when he might not be able to remember the law, or what words mean.

He's not really cynical enough to think that the pack thing always goes ugly, but when it does, it always starts with that first cement-the-hierarchy heat. With an alpha still riding the adrenaline high of victory, the betas still competing, jockeying for a better position, and an omega going full throttle despite their body still being unready that early in the game.

Even with the best intentions, the whole thing could go to shit. Clint's seen it happen more than once.

If he'd twisted left instead of right after getting thrown into Steve, he'd probably have been okay, and this would have been--Bruce's problem, maybe, which was as good as no problem at all, since heat or no heat, none of them would be stupid enough to aggravate the Hulk.

Unless heat aggravates the Hulk, in which case maybe the better wish is that it should have been Tony's problem. 

Or Steve's. Someone indestructible, anyway.

\-----

There's nothing for two days, which is long enough that Clint starts to think that nothing's going to happen. He lost by a fluke, and maybe it counts. Maybe _knowing_ that is enough to shut down his body's recognition of the defeat. It's not like that never happens. Young, immature alphas find themselves actually a beta--victory be damned--often enough that it's not news and the reverse isn't entirely unheard of, either.

"So maybe," he tells Bruce, "I'm just not omega material."

"Or," Bruce suggests back, "you've just never been an omega and it's taking you longer to catch on," and lays a hand briefly over the back of Clint's neck as he passes, giving him a gentle squeeze that's maybe supposed to be reassuring but just seems smug. 

"Sorry I haven't had your practice," Clint snips after him.

\-----

It hits in the middle of the night, and at first Clint thinks he's sick because he has an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and a fuzziness in his head that he usually associates with head trauma or high fevers. He's drowsy enough that he just curses and turns over, tugging the blankets higher to ward off the shivers. 

When he wakes up again, there's clearly something wrong, but his head is even foggier and it takes a while to realize just what exactly is going the fuck on. His insides feel odd, not quite cramping but like they might soon. He's not sure if he feels sick or not, but his skin is prickling and everything _aches_. 

Everything down south especially, and god. Nothing about this is hot, but he's getting hard and--not slick. He grimaces and ghosts a couple of fingers over his hole and they come away damp, but nothing like omegas he's been with. 

"JARVIS," he calls, when he catches a whiff of himself and even if his own pheromones don't really register with him realizes that he's starting to smell like heat and omega, "JARVIS, lock the door."

" _Your apartment is already secure, Agent Barton_ ," JARVIS intones, " _Perhaps I should notify Captain Roge--?_ "

"Shit. No. No notifying," Clint groans, and staggers to his feet so he can go splash water on his face and maybe on the rest of him. He wouldn't mind something warm to drink, but he hadn't recognized the signs of heat when the recognizing was good and now the kitchen seems too god damn far away. 

The _bathroom_ seems too far away. His spine feels like it's turning to something hot and liquid, and when that's been described to him it's always sounded kind of sexy, but it's really just uncomfortable and frightening. It takes the strength right out of his legs, and he just manages to stumble back towards the bed before slumping back down with a strangled sound that comes out a bit like a whine, a bit like a choked gurgle.

He's grinding against his mattress, but there's not anything pleasurable about it, almost like his body doesn't give a shit about enjoyment and is moving on its own. Like it knows what will bring relief, even though everything is uncomfortable and painful and feels more like being ill than like being overcome with lust. His skin is so sensitive it feels like his ratty, worn-to-handkerchief-thinness t-shirt is scraping his skin raw.

He rolls onto his side and slides a hand into his boxers and tries to bring himself off, but it's a no-go. It's as uncomfortable and raw as the rest of him, like his skin doesn't know if it wants to be touched or not. Like his body is confused. He's not even sure if he's too hot or too cold. His heart is racing, and that's probably the most alarming part, because it feels like panic.

"Fine. _Fine_ ," Clint tries to snarl, but it feels like it gets lost somewhere in his chest. He's not sure if he hopes JARVIS can hear it or not, "Get whoever you want."

\-----

He falls asleep--or just drifts away somehow--hunkered under blankets and with his hand still down his shorts, but he wakes up curled around something warm and solid. The crawl in his skin isn't gone, but it's not painful and raw anymore and when something strokes down his back, he arches into it, pressing his shoulders and spine into the contact, breathing a scent that's calm and soothing and that burns his lungs at the same time, but in a way that makes him want more.

"Easy," someone says, and Clint recognizes Steve. 

"Everyone lied," he mumbles into Steve's ribs, "this is the least hot thing ever," and hears Steve laugh a little.

"Bruce is getting you some water," he says, and shifts a little to let Clint slump further into him, and with Steve's arm loosely around him, it's like he's surrounded by alpha scent. It's not the first time he's smelled it, or been cocooned in it, or even been affected by it, but when he'd been a beta it hadn't been like _this_. He's not sure he wants to _fuck_ Steve, exactly, but he _could_ just about crawl into his skin.

It's probably a creepy sentiment, phrased that way.

"Come on," Steve says, with his hand on the back of Clint's neck and _that's_ another thing that's never felt quite like this before. Even if Clint had a reason to resist, there's not a single part of him that _wants_ to, so he lets Steve pull him into a more upright position.

"Not sure I'm ready to go, Cap," Clint tells him, and notices that his words come out a little slurred. He sounds drunk. 

"Of course you're not ready to go," Steve says, and _he_ sounds a lot more in control than alphas are supposed to, in this kind of situation. He also sounds kind of exasperated and Clint wonders if he's maybe been saying weird shit for a while now. It's not like he really remembers Steve coming in, or a lot of what happened between then and now. "You've never had a heat before. You're not going to be ready for a while."

"They suck," Clint informs him, a little blearily. 

"This isn't it yet," another voice says--Bruce--as the bed dips, and then there's a plastic cup in his hands, with a plastic bendy straw and a Mets logo printed cheaply on its sides. Good old gas station giant slurpee memorabilia. There's nothing in it but tap water--at tap temperature--but it still hurts his hands. He might as well be holding ice cubes. Bruce looks amused and takes the thing back, then leaves and comes back with a dishtowel wrapped around it.

"If you'd had heats before, you'd be having one now," Bruce says, "But since you've managed to somehow avoid ever being an omega, it's going to take your body some time to," he gestures vaguely, like he thinks Clint should be up to speed on this, "adjust," he finishes.

"I haven't done pack that often," Clint tells him, a little peevishly. There's a part of his brain that's foggily aware that he's probably supposed to be being a whole lot nicer to Bruce, who is a beta who is also looking after him, but Bruce just smiles and sits back down. 

"I wasn't--Look, I've never been an alpha. It's _fine_. I'm pretty sure Steve's never been a--"

"Beta," Steve supplies.

"You've never been a _beta_?" Even for Steve, that's weird, but Clint feels a bit bad because Steve shrugs a little at his incredulous tone and says, a little self consciously,

"By the time I was old enough, it was just me and Bucky," he says, and now Clint _definitely_ feels bad for him. "That's not exactly a real pack, you know?" he says, "We didn't have anyone to be beta," and nudges Clint's hand to make him drink. The water still feels too cold, but it's a lot more comfortable in his mouth and sliding down his throat than against his hands.

"And then there was the war, and then. Well." Steve stops to nuzzle the back of his neck. It's fucking disconcerting. "By _then_ , I was a lot harder to knock down."

"I'm usually a lot harder to knock down," Clint offers, "I used to do acrobatics. My backflip is still pretty decent." He doesn't really think he can argue his way out of this, but whatever's happening to him is too weird. Too uncomfortable. The _no way out_ feeling is starting to make him feel trapped and claustrophobic. 

"You'll be fine," Steve says, his hand back on Clint's neck, his thumb stroking small circles. "Bucky wasn't thrilled about the idea either--"

"Barnes was your omega? Huh." 

Steve's hand ghosts up the side of his neck, till he's gently cupping Clint's face from behind. "Well," he says, with a quiet laugh, "He wasn't in the best shape at the time. It was probably unfair." Steve sounds really smug about it, like he pulled the winning prank in a drawn-out competition, and that more than anything--that Steve doesn't see omega as something too bad to inflict on his best friend--makes Clint relax. 

"It was the war," Steve goes on, a little wistfully now, inhaling against the back of Clint's ear. His breath tickles. "But the pack was good."

"Quit _sniffing_ me."

"Scenting," Bruce corrects, and gives him a nudge, "Keep drinking. You're going to lose a lot of fluid, and--"

"Jesus."

Bruce honest to god _pats him_ , and says, "You'll probably just sweat a lot this first time around. Still feel feverish?"

Clint makes an _mm_ sound around the straw, then narrows his eyes when _Bruce_ edges closer and takes a whiff, under the guise of feeling his face to check for temperature. "You're probably going to have a series of this kind of heat, so don't be alarmed if this happens again sooner than you think it should. It's just things coming online."

"Great," Clint says and gives the cup a little shake like he's checking how much is left, but it's really just something to do while Bruce is pretending to not notice that he's still leaning in too close and still kind of creepily inhaling.

"More water?" he asks, reaching across him for the cup, and Clint gives him his best unimpressed look, then hands it over with a brief head-shake.

"Is everyone going to be doing this now?" he asks, when Bruce leans close enough that his nose almost brushes Clint's t-shirt.

Bruce self-consciously un-leans and his fingers fiddle along the handle of the cup and the edge of its lid. Says, "Sorry," but Steve makes an amused sound that's not quite a laugh. 

"Probably," he says, and Clint lets himself be settled against Steve's chest, "You don't want to?"

He's not sure. The raw feeling is pretty much gone from his skin, and even if there's still a thrum of something--like a gentle electric current, or like laying his hand against Tony's armor when he has his repulsors going--it's not uncomfortable, and it's more than clear that it's Steve's scent that's doing it. Even his hard-on's subsided, which is good--if backwards, based on what he knows about heat--because no way in hell is he taking care of _that_ in front of Steve and Bruce. 

Still, he presses a palm against himself and registers a little distantly that his boundaries are kind of shot. 

"This is just a ramp-up," Bruce tells him, tucking a blanket over him and Steve. Maybe to give him some privacy, or because he's offending Bruce's sense of propriety. "You're okay. You just smell nice right now."

"Bet you say that to all the girls," Clint returns, moving his hand to stroke over the inside of his own thigh. Bruce is right. Touch, regular touch, and Steve's super-warmth against the side of his face feels better than _anything_. Steve seems to pick up on it, because his hand goes back to stroking over Clint's shoulders and down his back and Clint can't help the sigh that comes out of him. Can't help squirming into Steve a little and--maybe a bit hypocritically--tucking his face close to Steve's throat so that he's inhaling alpha with every breath, until he feels almost dazed with it.

Bruce gives him one of those Bruce half-smiles but just says, "Try to get some sleep, Clint."

\-----

Tony is a lot less tactful than Steve or Bruce, catching Clint by the back of his t-shirt the next day and hauling himself in to snuffle loudly into his neck before draping his arms over his shoulders and pressing himself up against Clint's back. At least he isn't pulling or really leaning that much, because Clint's not that sure he can take Tony's weight right now, or catch his balance fast enough to avoid tipping over.

"Hello, hello," Tony murmurs ridiculously at him, wrapping each hand around the opposite wrist to solidify his grip when Clint tries a half-duck away and being scented by Steve was one thing--with his alpha scent to muffle the sense of awkward weirdness--but having betas crawling all over him is a little unexpected. In the few packs he'd been in, the omegas had been the alphas' prizes, and the betas' contact with them limited to alpha favorites. Clint's _been with_ omegas before, but not to harass and mold himself against, just occasional moments of rut. He tries to give Tony a hint via a little elbow action, but Tony somehow manages squirm out of the way without releasing him.

"Don't be like that, Barton," Tony chirps, and for a second Clint tenses, thinking Tony's about to do something more than be cheerfully obnoxious, but instead Tony relaxes his grip and makes a little distance, almost managing to be subtle about it except for how he makes goofy shushing noises into Clint's ear.

"Jesus. Could everyone just stop fucking _breathing on me_ ," Clint snaps, and tries to shrug him off, but Tony refuses to be budged any further. 

"You're the prickliest omega," Tony observes, and breaks the circle of his arms to brush the backs of his fingers over Clint's face. It's not soothing like Steve's touch. His hair is damp with sweat and Tony touching him just makes him feel sticky and kind of gross.

Reminds him how his skin isn't quite fitting.

"Get off, Stark."

"Fine. Okay," Tony grouses, and lets go, but doesn't really go anywhere. Clint's not sure if Tony's waiting for something. Maybe for his scent to affect Clint and make Tony something other than heavy and a pain in the ass. "You want me to win you over. I get it. Sit down. I'll make you breakfast. Eggs, coffee. The works."

The _works_ when Tony's cooking usually _is_ eggs and coffee, but Clint doesn't make the comment and lets himself be steered to a chair where he can crankily fiddle with the silverware while Tony hums and putters.

"If you start with the sniffing too," he says, when Natasha shows up, and brandishes a fork at her, "I'm going to start stabbing. Indiscriminately."

"Stark's right," Natasha tells him lightly, "You're terrible at this."

Clint snorts.

Tony says, "When you decide you want cuddles, Barton, you'll be sorry you were such a snob. How do you want your eggs? Sunny side--oop. Scrambled it is."

Tony's scrambled-by-default eggs are a bit sad looking. Flat and unfluffy like the world's most pathetic omelet. His coffee's pretty good, but Clint's enjoyment of it is more than a little mitigated by Tony's comment and the fact that yeah. Pretty soon he's going to need a bit more than Steve's proximity to see him through.

"You. Russian girl," Tony says, pointing his pan at Natasha, and Clint looks up in time to see her left eyebrow rise coolly. "Scrambled or sunny side up?"

Natasha looks over at Clint's plate then says, "Toast."

\-----

"Tony keeps cooking for me," Clint reports to Steve, a couple of days later, when the weirdness had died down and he feels more normal. Steve's sitting at the dining table doing some kind of paperwork. The team hasn't been doing anything--they still have a good chunk of downtime--and Clint can't imagine what could have generated the small stack Steve's meticulously working through but he's been at it for an hour now. Probably reading every line of small print, but he looks up from it to give Clint a weirdly apologetic smile.

"I know you like having your space, Clint. I can talk to him if you want."

"Don't. I tried that, and he sulks." Tony's sulks were impressive. Clint's not really sure why he cares more about Tony's apparent upset than his obnoxiousness. If it's because the team's getting closer, because they're a pack, or because his brain is utterly fucked up on omega hormones.

"Or I can yell at him," Steve offers, with a smirk that means he won't. Tony being a beta might mean that their butting of heads had come to an end, and that he'd maybe even listen to Steve but Clint somehow doubts it. It would still be interesting to test, but it's not like getting knocked over one time by fucking _coincidence_ means he can't fight his own battles.

"I'll get back to you," he tells Steve. 

Steve goes back to his paperwork with an agreeable little shrug and Clint slouches further down in his chair and says, "And Bruce keeps asking if I'm okay."

" _Are_ you okay?"

"Yes, _Steve_." He's only okay _for now_. He knows there's a ticking clock counting down in his--something. Brain. Or some kind of gland, maybe. Secreting go nuts sex hormones into his bloodstream whether he likes it or not. 

"Alright," Steve says, still without any argument and sounding almost absent as he sets a page aside and starts on the next one. "Just checking."

Clint snorts. "Checking, huh?" he says, a little sarcastically since even the betas are climbing all over him--with the exception of Natasha who's not unaffected but at least keeps her newfound touchy-feeliness to a gentle smile now and then.

Steve looks back up at him and says, "Clint," in a tone that's not particularly anything, but then doesn't follow it up except to reach out and pat his shoulder.

\-----

"You're our omega," Tony says, "This is _totally_ appropriate."

Clint's not sure it's appropriate under _any_ circumstance, but it's not like he knows that much about _real_ packs and as much as taking Tony's word on things might be inadvisable, Tony'd at least had a little robot-obsessed baby pack going on in college with some nerds or something.

Clint's pretty sure that hadn't involved sex toys, though. Or maybe, knowing Tony, it totally had. 

"I'm not sure if I should be scared or," he's not sure how to finish that sentence and goes with, "scared," again.

Tony's face contorts, then goes through a series of twitches. Like he's not sure if he wants to laugh or sulk which pretty much convinces Clint that his whole over the top emoting thing is a put on. 

"Bruce said you seemed nervous about heat," Tony says, picking up one of the toys--it's horrifyingly colorful--and fiddling with it. Not turning it on, thank god, because Clint notices switches and he is _not_ ready for a tutorial on mechanized dildos from Tony fucking Stark. "And. You know." His face is serious now. A little self conscious. Clint would be really entertained by that if he wasn't also suddenly horrifyingly fixated on the toy in Tony's hands and the mention of heat. 

"I don't want to use this on you," Tony says with a little smirk, not quite succeeding at the reassuring tone Clint's pretty sure he's shooting for, and waves the toy at him before putting it back with the others, "Or, I do, but that's not what this is about."

"What?' Clint asks, picking up a different toy--an opalescent lime green thing with orange accents. Tony's either color blind or doing these things on purpose--then drops it when it starts buzzing in his hand, "You want a show or something?"

"If you want to provide one." Tony says it like it's an offer, and Clint scowls at the toy buzzing its way across the worktable. "But if you don't, you take all of this," Tony wiggles his fingers at the pile of cartoon colors, "and you figure out what works for you."

Clint narrows his eyes suspiciously, "And?"

"And we'll make sure you don't starve or dehydrate to death while you're at it, I guess," Tony says, "Speaking of which, you want lunch?"

\-----

Thor isn't an earthling, so he isn't _really_ a beta, which means he hasn't become some strangely handsy, caretaking version of himself, which at least means a reduction in the grand total of beta lingering, but Bruce's gentle concern and Tony's weird mother henning still gets to him. Enough that when Natasha forgets and pats the back of his neck as he passes, Clint just _bolts_. And it's ridiculous and he feels ridiculous for doing it--and kind of like he's being an ass to Nat--but it's still nearly impossible to shake the boxed-in feeling that they're giving him. Everywhere he turns someone is patting him or putting an arm over his shoulders or gently gripping the back of his neck.

It's that last one that really freaks him out. Mostly because it also makes him feel weirdly quiet in a way that he _loves_ until it's gone and then he just thinks _fuck fuck fuck_. He's working on turning his freak-out off when his body decides to go on working on its heat skills. 

It's different this time. Less feeling of being feverish and sick and more--more _slick_.

And that's when Steve decides to come check on him. 

"Bad time, Cap," Clint tells him, opening the door a crack and hoping Steve doesn't notice the way he's shifting uneasily. He feels _disgusting_ and it doesn't help that the smile Steve gives him is all friendly patience. 

"I can smell it, you know," he says, gently, like he thinks Clint might actually not have realized that, and Clint sighs and opens the door a little further.

"Still the least hot thing ever," he tells Steve, stepping back then freezing as he feels his skin slide against itself, his thighs and ass wet and slippery. It's awkward and uncomfortable and Steve looks like he's trying really hard to not sniff the air.

He looks Clint up and down, and then asks, "But you're feeling okay?"

"Yeah. So far." He tries to cross his arms and prop his hip against the doorframe in a casual I-got-this pose, but shifting makes his pants stick to the damp backs of his legs. "I think I'm gonna--" he lets it trail, gesturing with his head in the general direction of the inside of his apartment and Steve holds both his hands up to show--something. It's not like Clint thought Steve was about to grab him, but now he's not sure that Steve _wasn't_.

"I'll send Bruce?" The question in it is obvious, and Clint's about to say no, but he doesn't exactly want to snub Bruce entirely when he's still not sure what other weird shit his body is going to decide to do before this is through. 

Or, god. He's an Avenger. Fury's not going to let the Initiative come apart. There is no _through_. This is for the long haul. 

"Whoa. Hey," Steve says, suddenly reaching for him. Clint jerks away out of reflex, then stills when Steve's grip tightens for just a second, before he lets go again with an awkward little pat. "Sure you're okay, Hawkeye? You look a little--?"

Freaked out. He looks _freaked out_. 

"Yeah. Fine. I just--Thought about it a little too closely."

It makes Steve look serious again, and solemn around his eyes, and Clint tries to ignore the way he's obviously aborting some kind of movement. "I swear to god, Cap. Pat me again and I won't be held responsible."

Steve smiles like he thinks Clint is kidding but he shifts his weight back, not really making distance, just giving the sense of it. He's still more than close enough to brush his fingers carefully over the ends of Clint's hair. "That's not a pat," he says, with that Steve smirk that's a lot more likeable than Tony's smug look. It's sort of gently self-effacing on Steve and there's no real way for Clint to make good on his threat without feeling like a jerk.

"Fine," he says, laughing a little--it sounds weird and awkward--and dips his head a bit to let Steve's hand make firmer contact, "Free pass. Just this once." 

Steve responds by letting his fingers rest with a little more weight, but he doesn't do more than comb through Clint's hair a little as he takes his hand back. _Maybe_ he brushes Clint's temple a little, but that could be by accident. It makes him blink when Steve's fingers move through his vision, too close to his eye, and he takes the opportunity to duck away. 

"So. I'm just gonna," he says, and gestures again towards the inside of his apartment. He really wants a shower. Maybe to live in his shower. The damp slickness he can feel rolling down his thigh is as disturbing as it is disgusting. He just wants his skin back. His regular, null, no-pack skin where his body works like it's meant to and Captain America doesn't give him understanding looks and stroke his face.

"Alright," Clint says, awkwardly stepping back so he can close his door, "Going now."

"Okay," Steve says, not alpha-pushy, "Call if you need anything."

\-----

He doesn't need anything but Bruce shows up anyway, thoughtfully waiting for Clint to let him in instead of wrangling Tony to get JARVIS to open his locks. 

Bruce gives him a weird look when Clint absently thanks him for not huffing and puffing his way in, warm from the shower and with a towel draped over his head even though he's dressed. His hair is short enough to dry fast, so he has to admit to himself that he's using it as some kind of stupid shield. To keep scent in or hands off or maybe a bit of both. 

It's probably not working for either purpose though, because Bruce tilts his head a little and Clint snaps, "No sniffing," which stops whatever Bruce was about to do--scent the air, Clint guesses--and gets him an apologetic little smile.

"Steve said you were--" Bruce starts, in the _explaining_ tone he uses to say things like, _You need stitches, but we can wait for medical_ , or _I'm just going to take a quick look_.

"Stop. Stop right there," Clint says, "This is weird enough without having to have conversations about it. I don't need new omega 101. I have internet."

Bruce lets out a puff of breath and leans a shoulder against the doorframe, and really Clint's having a record number of conversations at his door today. He should probably let Bruce in, it's probably weird that he hasn't, but he's also pretty sure that his entire apartment reeks of omega and that thought makes him edge his door further closed, just by a few inches.

"Clint," Bruce says, and sounds like he's trying not to laugh. He probably does look pretty ridiculous, hiding behind the edge of his door with a towel over his head. He wonders if he looks as paranoid as he suspects. "I told you I've been an omega before. Everything that you're going through now, I've been there."

"Okay," Clint says, "How long is this _ramp-up_ shit going to go on for? Because I'd really just like to get it over with."

"I thought you had internet?"

"Yeah. Well. It just says _every omega is different_." He doesn't make air quotes, but he does say it in a bitter little mocking voice that makes Bruce smile.

"Every omega is different, Clint," he says apologetically, "There's various factors that--"

"Fine, doctor useless. I'll stick to my google then," Clint says and shuts the door on him.

"Clint!" Bruce calls through it and Clint's not sure if the undertone to his voice is concern or exasperation.

\-----

By the time he ventures back out of his apartment, whatever's been going on downstairs has dried up and he's scrubbed himself raw under too-hot water so many times that his entire skin feels dry and oversensitized and abraded. He _hasn't_ kept hydrated and now that he can concentrate on something other than seeping through his clothing every couple of hours he's thirsty as fuck.

"Juice?" Tony offers, as soon as he wanders into the kitchen. Clint would almost swear he's been lying in wait. 

"Are you changing professions?" he snips, "Because there's a diner four streets over with a help wanted sign."

Tony pouts. Clint glares. 

"Baby," Tony starts, and Clint says, "Oh, _fuck_ ," and makes himself scarce.

\-----

"Throw me into the wall," he tells Thor, getting his footing even though he has no chance of out-wrestling him, "Or out the window. Or off the roof. Please?"

Thor pulls and twists and flips him onto his back with almost no effort. He probably didn't even need to do the throw. He could have just picked Clint up and dropped him.

"Alright," Clint says, "Now do the same thing, but land me on my head."

Thor helps him up but pats his back instead of putting him out of his misery, but at least it's normal Thor companionship and not whatever the fuck is going on with Bruce and especially Tony. 

"Had I known this would be so difficult," Thor offers quietly, "I would have given you the victory," and shrugs. "Defeat wouldn't have affected me in this physical way."

Clint can't really imagine Thor throwing _any_ game, much less one with even half an element of martial competition, so he appreciates the sentiment. 

"And I would not object to Tony's . . . care." 

Clint can't help but laugh. "I bet," he says, because Thor is a fucking glutton--by earth standards--and his own brain maybe doesn't care that Thor is an unaffected Asgardian because he feels a faint wash of fondness that he knows isn't just the camaraderie of being practice buddies and team mates. 

He tries to remember how he'd felt about members of the piecemeal packs he'd been part of, but most of his time had been preoccupied with other betas, watching his back and his place in the changeable middle hierarchy, making sure that the bulk of the pecking order stayed below him rather than above. 

He sure as fuck doesn't remember being overcome by a desire to coddle and housekeep. 

And he definitely doesn't remember any omega sidling up to him for whatever it is that some tiny muted part of his brain is starting to jangle for, the longer he spends in close contact with anybody on the team.

This whole thing, he thinks as he thrums at the feeling of Thor gripping his arms to pull him up for another round, is going fuck things up with Nat.

\-----

Nat tells him, "I felt bad about that game plan going badly for you, but now I think it's probably a good thing."

"Traitor," Clint says, flatly. There hasn't been much time between the last short burst of his body going nuts and _this_. His skin's starting to crawl again, like the first time, and if he had any real illusions that he could side step heat, they're gone. Bruce is right. His body is ramping up to it and there's nothing he can do to stop it. 

Nothing safe anyway. A huge dose of suppressants at an early stage has been known to derail heat permanently, but ever since he mentioned it to Bruce he's been banned from the lab and medical floors. 

"I think you might benefit," Natasha says and doesn't explain any further. Clint's grateful as fuck that she doesn't sniff or pat or try to feed him. He's pretty sure his scent is ramping up again, and he'd love to wash it off but he's not sure his skin can deal with another round of soaking and scrubbing. It would probably be tactically wise to just stop fighting it at this point. 

Natasha smiles as his face pulls into a scowl and she rests her chin in both hands, elbows propped on the edge of the table. She looks pleased or amused and Clint's considering moving her from his _best friend_ column to his _fuck you_ column. Right after Stark and Banner. Maybe ahead of Banner, since this whole thing is partly her fault and now has her apparent blessing.

"Oh, _Clint_ ," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking into a not-quite sympathetic smile. "It's not going to be awful. The last time I was in a proper pack, I was omega and--"

The thought of that, of Natasha hot and needy, hits him like a ton of bricks, and he says, "Fuck."

"You like that, huh?" Natasha laughs, still watching him. They've never been anything more than good friends, but the way her eyes are sparking with gentle humor now makes him want to lean over and kiss her.

His sense of boundaries is really, really shot.

"It's not a bad thing to be taken care of, Clint," she says, "and I like seeing you be spoiled. So stop acting like a little shit about it."

\-----

When Tony rolls onto him--not in a creepy way, just kind of casually propping his head on Clint's hip and draping an arm over him as they sprawl on the mats in the gym, utterly out-stamina-ed by the horror that is Steve versus Thor--and he has no reaction other than to arch his back a little so Tony can tuck his fingers under his ribs, he knows he's in trouble.

Steve seems to realize the same thing maybe fifteen minutes later, while Clint's still debating the comparative benefits of staying utterly still against those of knocking Stark in the head and making a getaway. He cuts off the match with Thor to look over and even though he's way more subtle about it than Tony, Clint can tell that he's testing the air. 

If he can smell it from there, it means Clint probably _reeks_ of omega pheromones. Which explains Tony sticking to him like a damn leech.

"Stark," Clint tries, and tries to squirm out from under him, but stills when the movement requires hip action and doesn't dislodge Tony anyway. If anything, he grips tighter. "Tony. Let me up."

Tony releases, but doesn't get up and _now_ Clint could flip and twist and catch him in at least four different pins, one of which includes the threat of breaking his arm in two places, but he doesn't make a move. It's like his body can't remember how to _want to_.

For about ten seconds, and then Steve's got Tony by the back of the shirt and is saying, "Get off him, Tony," in a low, even voice before he turns it on Clint to ask, "Clint? Are you alright?"

"Uh," Clint fumbles, and almost involuntarily snags Tony as he moves away, then lets him go as his fingertips hit the edge of the arc reactor. "Sorry."

"No problem. Your rejection means nothing to me," Tony mopes, misunderstanding his apology on purpose, "My heart's already ripped out after all."

It hurts Clint's brain how much unwarranted sympathy he feels for Tony at that, and he covers his face with both hands and groans. "Please tell me this isn't going to be permanent. Tell me I'm getting my damn mind back. At some point."

"You're fine," Steve says and even though there's a laugh in it, he also sounds sort of serious. 

"I'll be fine when you fix Tony," Clint grouches, even though yeah. _They_ don't seem to be worried about the brainfuck that's been going around. For a sex-driven fuck-mad omega, he's the only one who's seeing the insanity here.

"There's nothing wrong with Tony either," Steve says, but carefully and like he thinks he might regret saying so if Tony decides to quote that declaration later.

"It's just the pheromones in the air," Tony puts in, not very helpfully, "No one is losing their sanity."

"Oh. Well. Good, then," Clint says, sarcastic, and drops an arm back over his face, "As long as your weirdness is just chemically induced."

"Right. I forgot that you think you're the normal one here, Hawkeye." Tony's looking down at him now. Clint can tell by where his voice is coming from and by the way he's kind of rubbing the arm Clint still has flung over his face. It's at odd contrast with the obnoxious jokeyness in his voice. 

Clint ignores him. And stubbornly shoves aside the way he's been _maybe_ acting a bit off. Maybe. "I think I'm in heat," he says, blurting it. He's not sure. It's just that Tony smells other than work-out sweaty. And then there's a whiff of something else, something _better_ and it's fucking _Steve_ , grabbing him by the upper arms and hauling him to his feet with obnoxious ease.

"Alright. Come on."

"Come on where?" Clint hedges, just to be difficult, but Steve just makes sure he has his balance--even if _of course_ he has his balance, who the hell does Steve think he _is_?--then gives him a fond pat to the back of the head that could be some kind of correction if Steve didn't look so friendly, giving him that smile that he gives about-to-panic civilians. Clint can't help but smirk at it. 

He has no idea if it's working or not. He thinks it's probably coming off a bit strained. Steve--Steve smells really _good_.

"Kitchen," Steve says, giving him a little push, "If this is happening you need water and food."

"So Tony's been feeding me to fuel my impending sex mania? Good to know." It sucks to know. Tony gives him a double thumbs up. Clint makes a mental note to put him on his shit list.

\-----

Steve's a much better cook than Tony, but Clint mostly pushes the food absently around on his plate, attention turned inwards, trying to make note of any weird thing new thing his body decides to do. 

"Least hot thing ever?" Steve asks, with a small quirked smile, setting bottles of sports drink down. "See if these are too cold."

Clint lets the fork hang from his mouth and puts his hand against one to test. Whatever his body is doing it's not going back to being hypersensitive. The bottles feel chill, but not enough to be painful, and his clothing doesn't feel like it's scraping his skin off this time. "They're fine," he says, taking the fork back up in his hand and making small circles with it to indicate the row of bottles Steve's set out. The overkill is very Tony.

"Workout, heat," Steve says before he can ask the question, and shrugs one shoulder a little. The Bruce _stay hydrated_ song and dance is a little bit weirder coming from Steve, but Clint just says, "Huh," and twists the cap off of one of them. The cold sweetness of it is a lot more welcome than the food, and Clint pushes his plate away in favor of chugging down one bottle, then downing the next a little more slowly before settling to slow sips. He hadn't realized he was that thirsty, but now his stomach is protesting. Or. Or something.

The sensation is like a mild ache. Not quite pain, but uncomfortable. Hollow. He can't quite locate where it's centered.

Steve notices his distraction, because what feels like a second later he's by Clint's side, blocking his field of vision on the left and Clint starts to adjust for it automatically then decides evasive maneuvers are ridiculous when it's _Steve_ , who's probably just there for a hit of omega, and slouches instead, putting a hand over his stomach, trying to find the source of the empty feeling.

"Oh god." Empty feeling. Fuck.

Steve tugs the still half-full bottle from his suddenly-tense fingers and sets it back on the table, careful not to touch him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I just--" _Need to be filled. Fuck, fuck_. "Need to go." He doesn't move. Steve's so close and Clint needs--painfully, stupidly--for him to give his okay before he can beat the hasty retreat he has planned. He picks the plastic bottle back up--Steve's put the cap back on it--and picks at the label, turning it in his hands. The remainder of the drink's warmed up to just below room temperature, which means he's been here longer than he'd realized. "Steve?"

Steve's hand settles against the back of his head, his fingers moving lightly, making scratching sounds as Clint's hair shifts under the pressure. It feels impossibly loud. "Okay," he says, "Not a problem," but doesn't move back. Out of the corner of his eye, Clint can see him giving the nearly untouched plate a critical look. It makes him worry a bit for how bad this is going to be, if Steve's concerned about his not having enough _lunch_ , but he's not going to hang around for Steve to _decide_ that he should hang around. He grabs the remaining full bottle and ducks out from under Steve's hand, bolting for the elevator and his rooms.

\-----

Tony comes not so much to check on him but to lean in his doorway and hold out a box filled with the pile of colorful plastic Clint had last seen in the lab. It's like the world's most obscene Easter basket and Clint eyes it suspiciously and doesn't let Tony in.

"Relax, Barton," Tony says with a grin that's more sympathetic than Clint would have expected him capable of, "If you don't want company, you don't want company, but you'll probably need _something_."

Clint shifts uncomfortably and says, "Yeah," but doesn't take the box until Tony shoves it against his chest and catches him by the wrist to wrap his arm around it, then holds it there to make sure Clint won't just drop the whole thing. "Um."

"Don't be shy, Hawkeye," Tony smirks, still holding his arm pulled across the box and his wrist pressed against it, "No one's judging." Clint wants to throw the whole fucking mess of it back at him, but he also can't make himself pull away. _Tony_ of all people shouldn't be able to keep him pinned. Shouldn't be able to keep him still with just that one hand on him. Clint shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again and obediently grips the box, letting his breath out in a low sigh as he gives in. Tony's just a _beta_ , and pretty damn low on the pack ladder, considering. If this still isn't heat, he's going to be a helpless _mess_ when it really hits.

Tony lets him go and pats his cheek--or really, the whole side of his face--gently, and Clint turns his head a little to keep Tony's fingers away from his eye and maybe to get him to slide them into his hair. Just a little. He wants--

Clint swallows, then swallows again, hard, and steps back into the cool safety of his apartment. He can still feel the warmth of Tony's hand against his face like a brand, even though Tony has both hands held up in a _mean no harm_ gesture. He steps further back, out into the hall, saying, "If you need anything, Clint--Need any _one_ \--tell JARVIS and we'll be right--"

"Okay," Clint interrupts, getting his wits back a little, "Thanks." 

It's another doorway conversation. He's glad Tony hasn't mentioned it or decided to discuss the sex toys in any depth.

"You look like you need a pep talk," Tony says, with a thoughtful frown, "You want me to send you Cap? I think we all know he can rally the troops like no other."

"Okay," Clint says again, flat, "Thanks," and closes the door with his foot.

"Okay? That looks more like a 'no'," Tony calls through it. He sounds gratifyingly muffled.

\-----

It's still the least hot thing ever, but now his body is disagreeing with his mind's objections and insisting that no, this is totally hot. Or something is totally hot, even if he's not sure exactly what. He _wants_. He's restless and hard and the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach is growing until all he _is_ is the hollow feeling. He drinks the last of the sports drink and another from his fridge and retreats to the shower where he turns the hot water all the way up and stands under it until he feels unsteady from the empty feeling and from inhaling steam and then he slides to the stall floor and tries to beat off. 

He feels maybe three times crazier when he finally gives up, panting and still desperate even after he finishes, with no relief from the aching, empty feeling at all. "Fuck," he says and reaches to twist the water off. 

\-----

Sitting in the bottom of the shower with his face in his hands doesn't create any improvement in the situation either, so Clint stumbles back out into his bedroom to find something comfortable and worn. And clean, even though that's probably not going to last for very long. There's already dampness on his thighs that has nothing to do with the shower and that doesn't stay gone no matter how many times he wipes it away.

It's not bothering him as much as it had the first time, but it's still sort of gross. Or disturbing. It's not really a thrill to be reminded about what his body is up to.

The box from Tony is sitting by the end of his bed, on the floor. Pink and blue and something Clint can't even figure out in silver and safety orange visible over the edge of it. He drops his towel over the whole jumble of it, then gets dressed--t-shirt, boxers, another pair of boxers, sweats--then can't figure out what else to do other than roam restlessly around his apartment, like a trapped animal pacing the perimeter of a cage.

Even out of sight, the stupid box is haunting him. 

\-----

Natasha shows up while he's contemplating chewing his fingernails off to keep from touching himself--it just makes it worse, brings him to an edge he can't tip over even when he makes himself come over and over--and he at least has the presence of mind to kick Tony's goody bag of candy color filth and depravity under the bed before stumbling over to let her in.

When he opens the door, she has her hand on her hip and a grin on her face, and it's not what Clint wants to see when he's _dying_. "Nice get up," she says, and Clint realizes that he's brought the comforter with him, wrapped around him like a shield or a parka. 

"Sorry. I've decided to keep being a shit about this," he tells her, with as much dry normality as he can scrape together. Natasha laughs. He can't decide if he thinks it sounds sympathetic or not, but he gives her the benefit of the doubt and doesn't shut the door in her face.

"I figured as much," she says with a little shrug that says, _I tried_. Clint gathers the comforter closer around himself and frowns at her in a way that's probably failing to be threatening. She's still smiling and when she starts to push past him and into his apartment, he almost lets her past out of habit, then steps to block her almost at the last minute and they end up with an awkward shuffle in the doorway, Natasha thinking that they're just accidentally getting in each other's way, and Clint trying to _stay_ in her way without tripping over the trailing end of the comforter.

"Picture of grace, Barton," she says, when he almost fails at that last and has to grab for the doorframe. He doesn't quite manage that either, with his arms still tangled up in fluffy fabric, and ends up having to catch his weight with one shoulder against the wall, just inside the doorway. He shoots Nat his best dirty look. 

"Go away."

She doesn't. "Are you okay? Steve said--"

"Yeah. Great." Good for Steve. Spreading the fucking word.

Natasha's expression goes determinedly patient. Like she's trying very hard for him, and Clint feels a pang of guilt then shoves it away and stubbornly sets his jaw.

"You look terrible, Clint," Natasha says, as if he needed that pointed out, then adds, "And ridiculous."

Clint hitches the comforter further up around his shoulders, as a barrier in case she's gearing up to sniff him. Or in case she does something like step in close and it sends his brain into park. "And whose fault is that, Ms. Trust Me I Have A Plan To Take Down Thor?"

Natasha sighs and pats his shoulder, ignoring the way he hunches defensively under the comforter, then gives him a loose, brief hug. "You don't have to hole up, dummy. No one's going to jump you. Come watch TV. Or watch Stark try to make you soup. It's pretty entertaining."

Sex toys and soup. He _is_ being spoiled, but in a way that's kind of invasive and more than mildly disturbing.

"I don't think so. I'm just gonna--I don't know. Microwave some tea or something. Try to sleep it off."

"It's not a hangover, Clint, but alright," she says, and gives him a pat as she steps back. It's a little odd, but not too unlike gestures she's made before, mostly after kicking his ass, so it's not as disconcerting as when Tony tries it. "But call if you need anything. Or if you feel yourself getting any weirder."

"Funny."

"Or if you get scared," she says, from out in the hall, her tone a mix of serious and kidding, and Clint sticks his head out to look both ways so he can make sure no one else was around to hear that. 

"Go _away_ , Tasha."

\-----

"Okay," Clint says to himself, dumping Tony's box out onto his bed, " _Now_ I'm scared." He's pretty sure Tony has the things color-coded. It seems like something Tony would do, and there's a definite correlation between stupid flashy color and shape. Or something. Clint's not about to sort them to figure out exactly what system Tony had used to organize them. 

Instead, he pulls the end of his comforter over his head and lets himself flop over backwards. Something rolls and hits the floor with a thunk and Clint automatically turns onto his side to reach for it. It's pink and dark purple. Yellow buttons. And it's still a more restrained color combination than some of the others. He pushes what looks like the _on_ button, expecting it to start humming, but instead a section near the base of it starts to expand. 

"Holy _shit_ , Stark." 

The worst thing about it is that some part of him is more than a little interested, and Clint hurls the thing across the room before that part can get any specific ideas. As it is, he has to tamp down the sense of anticipation. It's so intense it makes his _skin_ hurt.

\-----

Safety orange has a _huge_ knot. Tony could have just put a warning label on the thing, the psycho, because the traffic cone color isn't nearly enough of a heads-up. A gentle baby blue one, no bigger around than maybe two of his fingers, has none. The green one Clint had set off in the workshop is somewhere in between, thickening inside him but nothing more than that. The sensation is still somewhere between discomfort and pain, but it makes him gasp in relief and hunger and _want_.

\-----

He gets his mind back in what feels like the early morning. It's still dark out, but he's been out of it too long for it to be any earlier than two. Somewhere along the way he's shed all his clothes and his bed is a mess of colored plastic and tangled sheets. It's horrifying, and Clint tries not to think about it as he sweeps the lot of them back into their box and shoves _that_ as far under his bed as possible. All the way into the far corner.

There's still a weird sense of electricity under his skin and even an over-hot shower doesn't chase it away. The clothes he pulls on feel rough and constricting and even though he's still shivering with occasional chills he can't deal with anything heavier than a thin T-shirt. 

He can't deal with the _air_ in his room and the way it stinks of omega, and even if the early morning is when Tony tends to wander the halls on a circuitous route back to the penthouse, Clint tugs his sneakers on and slips out into the hall, with the half-formed idea of heading to the pool or the gym even though he's shaky enough that he'd probably drown himself or land on his head or something else that Natasha would have choice words about.

Instead, he finds himself knocking on Steve's door. Which is really stupid, because Steve probably can't hear him and it's not like he's living in some cottage in the woods or something. There's an intercom and a buzzer, but the idea of the sharp sound of the alert or of talking is too much. He lets his head thump as it comes to rest against the door and a second later JARVIS is asking, "Would you like me to wake Captain Rogers for you, Agent Barton?"

Clint tries not to, but he hears himself saying, "Yeah."

\-----

For once he doesn't mind Steve pressing his face into the crook of his shoulder. He does dodge away at the gentle scrape of teeth, but Steve lets him, and scents his way up his neck until his nose is pressed to the side of Clint's head, just above his ear. "Feeling better?" he says, and even with the rising inflection, it's not really a question. Clint doesn't doubt that Steve can tell it just from how much heat scent is still lingering on him.

"Mm," he says, and Steve puffs a breath against his hair. Maybe laughing. It's gentle though and not particularly mocking. Steve just seems quietly pleased, and Clint shoves him off enough to glare and say, "I don't _want_ anything from you," and even he has to admit that it's kind of mean, or manipulative, or maybe just plain weird to come to an alpha stinking of heat just to say something like that.

Steve doesn't look like he takes the rejection personally. But then, it's not like the lie isn't obvious because when Steve takes a step back to give him space, Clint follows in a pathetic, desperate stumble and can't even stop himself from grabbing onto Steve's shirt, twisting his hands into it like that's going to do anything to keep Steve from leaving if that's what he wants to do. 

"Steve." He's not sure what he's asking for. He's past enough of the heat--thank god--that the hollow, empty feeling is mostly gone and the ache in his chest is odd and directionless. 

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, not knocking his hands away but instead pulling him back in and oh. _That's_ what he wants. Steve's hands on his back are warm and soothing and he thinks he can feel where they've touched, like after Tony had put a hand on his face when he'd delivered the. The _things_. He doesn't really notice what he's doing until he's pressed so far up against Steve that _Steve's_ stepping backwards.

"Uh," Clint protests, intelligently.

"Come on," Steve says, taking him by the wrist, and Clint follows his backwards walk like a duck led by breadcrumbs. He should be embarrassed. He should fucking _stop_ , but he doesn't until he's well into Steve's bedroom and Steve is throwing his covers back, and then he's reversing direction and trying to twist his arm free of Steve's grip.

"Hang on. I--" 

Steve sits and gives his arm a tug. It's a little too careful to be called sharp, but his balance is off enough and his legs shaky enough that he bumps the side of Steve's bed when he tries to take a step to absorb the momentum and ends up tipping half onto Steve and half onto his bed, then tries to roll away. "Wait. _Wait_ , Steve." Steve's not holding on anymore, but his hand on Clint's chest is just as effective a pin, even with no force or weight behind it. 

"It's four in the morning, Clint. Just--I'm going back to sleep, okay?"

Oh. _Oh_. 

"Oh," Clint says. It's probably not that Steve hadn't noticed his freak out so much as that he's ignoring it, because as soon Clint manages to calm the hell back down, he's taking the restraining hand away so he can maneuver around Clint to get his legs up on the bed and under the blankets, leaving him sprawled mostly sideways across the mattress even though it means Steve's kind of cramped up near the wall.

It's not a bad act, except that Clint can smell the way _Clint_ being only about halfway back to sane is affecting Steve. There's an undertone to his regular alpha fragrance that's familiar enough to Clint to know that Steve's shifting gears into rut and fuck. He's an asshole. He clearly hadn't thought a damn thing through before coming here. "Sorry," he mumbles, pushing himself up, "Fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry."

Steve's response is to catch him by the back of the shirt and pull him back down, holding him there until he stops struggling. "Steve. _Cap_. You're strangling me."

"Clint. Hawkeye. You're keeping me up."

"Right," Clint says and stays where he is when Steve lets go to toss the blanket over him, then pats him awkwardly.

"Go to sleep, Clint."

\-----

He wakes up with Steve's arms wrapped around him and his own leg hooked over Steve's. His arm flung across Steve's face in a way that's probably kind of rude, considering, even if Steve doesn't seem bothered by it. He pulls it and his leg back and rolls away to lie on his back and the movement makes Steve grumble and shift. 

"Sorry. Kind of. In your personal space," Clint says, but Steve doesn't seem to feel the same way about how he's still got Clint mostly trapped under his arm because he doesn't remove it. Instead, he pulls Clint back in.

"N'a minute," Steve mumbles and Clint laughs into his arm and relaxes.

"Sure. But after that, up for school." he cracks. Steve blinks an eye open, and regards him blearily, then snorts and lets it drift closed again.

Asks, thick voiced, "Are you okay?"

He's pretty sure he is. His skin feels quiet--that's a thing now, unbelievably--and nothing hurts or aches. His head feels mostly clear, and he's not sure why, but he was sort of expecting something more like a hangover. 

"Depends if Tony's cooking or not," Clint says, but settles back in against Steve. 

\-----

Tony, as it turns out, is cooking, but it's not sad eggs so Clint counts it as a plus and accepts the plate that gets shoved at him without making a snide remark. "Waffles?"

"From scratch," Tony brags, and gestures grandly at the old style iron he has on the stovetop, "Just like Cap's mother used to make."

Something about that seems off kilter, but Clint can't put his finger on it firmly enough to harass Tony, so instead he says, "You learned actual cooking? How long was I out for?" and right. He'd forgotten Tony's touchy beta thing.

"Long enough that Bruce wanted me to over-ride your lock code," Tony says, being handsy and inappropriate and patting him a little bit like Natasha did on missions when she thought he might have an injury he wasn't registering over the rush of adrenaline and contained terror, hands firm and searching over his shoulders and face before obnoxiously ruffling his hair. "We tried to--Well, _I_ tried to--come water you and turn you towards the sun so you'd get even daylight on all sides and that kind of thing, but you didn't answer your door."

He might still not be all the way back yet, because he feels kind of bad about upsetting Tony, even though Tony's upset is mostly coming across as an incomprehensible ramble. "Oh," Clint says, "There was an. Um. A circumstance." 

"Yeah, yeah. I know all about your circumstance," Tony says, and looks like he's just managing not to wink at him, but then he reels the weird in and brushes aside his own drama, saying, more seriously, "JARVIS would have told me if you were in trouble." Clint's sure that two thirds of everything Tony says is just random for-the-hell-of-it bullshit, but it's still pretty impressive how easily how he can change gears.

He watches Tony pour syrup over his waffles and drinks the juice set by his plate and then the one set by Steve's and asks, "How long was I--?"

"Day and a half? Maybe a bit longer. Wasn't so bad, right?"

Clint tries very hard not to think about the box under his bed or if that's even what Tony's referring to. "It was fine," he says.

\-----

Tony and Bruce get pissed off with each other, which was probably inevitable considering the beta drive to compete. But it's also a little tragic to watch them have some kind of brilliant idea and look towards each other before remembering that they're on the outs. Still, Clint's kind of relieved to not be the focus of the team's weird behavior, and Natasha being impatient with Tony and Bruce beats her being exasperated and concerned at _him_ any day.

"It's almost like things are normal again," he tells Natasha, when no one's sniffed or patted or tried to feed him or randomly put an arm around his shoulder for no reason for a whole three days. That last one seems to happen a lot at practice. Like the fact that he can kick half the team's ass ninety nine point nine percent of the time and give the other half a respectable run for their money is lost on them and they need to make sure he's not damaged or shaken up or something from tumbling on _mats_. It's something of a relief to have personal space again.

"Things _are_ normal," Natasha tells him, "There's nothing not normal about this."

Clint gives Tony--storming through the living room again--a meaningful look, then turns back to Natasha. 

"Still normal," she says.

" _Bruce_ ," Tony says, in a tone that makes the name an insult, "Thinks he's too good to share a rung with me anymore," and it's probably something ridiculous that Tony's reading too much into and probably doing it because Bruce was standing in the way of something he wanted to do or build or blow up, but Clint remembers that beta paranoia and rank guarding. He's actually a little surprised that there hadn't been a problem before now. The _first_ thing _he'd_ done as soon as he'd secured non-omega status was to start plotting his take downs.

"You could challenge _me_ ," Natasha says, and lazily drapes an arm over the back of the couch to give Tony an innocently sweet smile. "If you don't want to be a bottom feeder anymore."

"I didn't say he _beat me_ ," Tony snaps.

"Cry me a river," Clint tells him, "I'd kick your ass right now if it would move me up."

Tony scoffs. "No, you wouldn't. You know you love the attention and the--" and stops, like he's heading into a social blunder that he actually notices, then comes over to kiss the top of his head and say, "The war is with _Bruce_ , Clint," before leaving.

"You call that normal?" Clint asks Natasha, then scowls when she just drops her head and shoulders into his lap and reaches a hand to his face to pat his cheek.

"Yes, I do."

\-----

Beta showdown only lasts a week, but by the end of it _Clint's_ the one jangled, which is almost as unsettling as the showdown itself. He's used to being on his own or, at worst, as part of an alliance of solitaries. The way it had been with Natasha, before the Avengers and before he apparently decided to give a crap about Tony's feuds. And it _is_ Tony's feud, because Bruce doesn't seem that interested in being involved in it anymore even if he's letting Tony egg him on. Clint's not really sure how to interpret that. It's really unclear which one of them is winning.

"Everything's fine, Clint," Steve says, when he comes into the kitchen to find him crankily shoveling sugar into half a cup of coffee.

Clint lets his gaze slide over and away from the velcro tipped darts he's been tossing at anything they will stick to--which isn't much. The kitchen Tony has installed in the communal area is modern sleek and the hand towel hanging on a hook by the sink is the only real stick-friendly target. Natasha's left some kind of fluffy wallet or phone case or something on the counter, but hitting it is just edging it dangerously close to the far edge and he has no idea how whatever's in it will take hitting the floor. "Mm," Clint says, and gets Steve in the middle of his chest. "I don't remember ever being that crazy. Maybe I just didn't notice."

"Tony's not really acting that different," Steve points out, and grins as he plucks the dart off himself and tosses it back. Clint hits him with it again. 

"He was already a bit crazy to start with," he allows, and this time Steve presses the dart into his hand when he returns it. His fingers brush Clint's wrist as he pulls back. It's probably not an accident. And it's _definitely_ not an accident when Steve presses the backs of those fingers to his cheek briefly before he sits down. At least the sniffing thing has died down. Mostly.

The patting thing is alive and well though, because when Bruce wanders in a little later he absently lays his hand over the back of Clint's neck, then slides it up into his hair as he passes, fingers moving against the back of his head, ruffling the hair there as they slide away. Clint rolls his eyes. Asks, "How's the war going?" and even though he means it to be sarcastic, it comes out sounding concerned and tense.

Bruce huffs. "It's not going. Tony's just offended. I wasn't even--"

"If you want to fight it out, I'll trip him for you," Clint offers and throws the dart. It doesn't stick to Bruce's shirt the way it had to Steve's sweater and bounces off. The plastic clatters a little on the floor and Bruce looks down at it and then back up.

Says, "Clint--"

"Bruce." 

"Everything's fine, Cli--"

"Jesus," Clint interrupts and ducks out of his chair to scoop the dart back up so he can flick it at Bruce again. Bruce catches it awkwardly against his chest and sticks it to the hand towel with the others. "I don't care about your goddamn fight with Tony."

\-----

The next time Steve manages to strong-arm Tony into actually joining practice, Clint ducks under his punch, flips him, then drops down on top of him, gets him into a pin, and refuses to let him up until he agrees to declare truce.

"I thought you didn't care," Tony grunts, squirming around trying to get free. Clint leans a little more weight onto him, putting pressure on his arm.

" _Ow_. Fuck, Barton."

"Say uncle."

"Uncle, you psycho. Uncle." Tony slaps the mat, "Look. Tapping out."

"To Bruce."

" _What?_ " Tony's squirm goes indignant, but his kicking around is pretty ineffective. Someone should really teach him some proper fucking grappling. "You-- _Fuck_. Let me go. Foul! Foul! Omega interference. This counts for nothing."

Clint doesn't let him go. "Bruce?"

" _This_ is how you move up, Banner? That's low." Clint can tell he's glaring daggers at Bruce as he comes padding over the gym's wooden floors and onto the mats to crouch in front of them.

" _Give_ , Tony," Clint says, when neither of them say anything.

"This is so not legit. Why are you siding with _Banner_?"

It's a reasonable question, and Clint's not that sure what the answer is, except that it would probably be a really stupid idea to try to pin Bruce onto a floor. It's not like tackling him was ever a realistic option.

"I'm willing to call it a draw," Bruce offers.

"I'm willing to make a _real_ match out of--Ow. _Barton!_ "

"No moving up," Clint says. "I'm vetoing the move-ups. If I don't get to, no one gets to. Unless you want to fight Thor, because I'd like to see that."

"Okay. _Fine_ ," Tony snaps, "Truce. I give. I'll take the draw. Jesus."

\-----

Tony's reaction to being released--after he'd finished dramatically working his arm and wincing--isn't to do something utterly justified like punch him in the face. It's what Clint would have done if someone had interfered with _his_ designs on self improvement, and he's only ever had to deal with _betas_ trying to stand in his way. Having an omega jump in is probably even more infuriating, but the only thing that happens is that Tony and Bruce decide to engage in another round of touch-and-pat, which is probably a sure sign that the feud is over, whatever the hell it had originally been about.

"I better not have to sort you guys out every fifth week or anything," Clint says, "Because that could get old pretty damn fast."

Bruce says, "Okay," in an amused tone and Clint lets himself be tipped against Bruce's side for reasons he can't even start to get a bead on. 

Bruce's fingers trail over the side of his neck, down to the curve of his shoulder, where they'll eventually clamp down to bond him. "The pack's fine, Clint," he says, as his thumb pushes in lightly, stroking circles over that spot, but never exerting any real pressure.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Betas fight."

"I _know_ betas fight," Clint snaps. He'd just never cared about beta fights that weren't his own. He'd stood by all-out beta _brawls_ and not even bothered, if it didn't look like _he_ was at any risk. 

"Alright," Bruce says, and his thumb pushes a little harder for a few strokes, until Clint's quiet against him and he should probably not be letting Bruce do that, but the restoration of order is making him feel kind of okay about a lot of things. 

He kicks Tony a little anyway, for good measure.

\-----

"Sorting out my pack for me?" Steve asks him, when he notices Tony and Bruce's return to accepting their tie for the ass end of the beta hierarchy. Clint grins and turns from the open fridge to sketch him a little bow, then pulls the milk out of the door and kicks it closed.

"Your pack? I though this was a group venture," he says, and goes to rummage through the cupboard for a glass. It's a mess of snack food boxes, cooking implements and ziploc and garbage bags. Either no one has a sense of organization, or they're all insisting on their _own_ organization, regardless of what anyone else is doing. Or, like Clint, they're all just shoving stuff where ever there's space. "Are you going to give me a lecture on the functions of inter-beta aggression too?"

Steve snorts. Asks, "Bruce?"

"Bruce," Clint confirms. Everyone's treating him like he's never been in a pack, rather than just that he's never been tossed on his ass at a crucial moment and it would be irritating--has _been_ irritating--but he's starting to feel like maybe he _has_ missed something, because he can't remember ever bothering to make up with fellow betas before, or recall feeling any particular affection for their omega. _Tony_ is treating the aftermath of _his_ beta spat with more diplomacy and magnanimity than Clint had ever managed and wasn't even holding a grudge for the interference. Obnoxious pats aside, he might have misjudged Tony, just a little bit.

Steve watches him fish a mug out from behind a box of cereal, then try to cram the door shut on all the boxes he's shifted around. 

"It's not going to last, you know," Clint says, pouring the milk, "They're going to find something to piss each other off about until someone breaks the tie." It could be dangerous with a Hulk involved. A Hulk and Tony's mean right hook to set the spark.

"It's not your job to worry about," Steve says, after a few moments. Not dismissive or code for _know your place_ , but reassuring. An _I got this_ , or maybe a _that won't happen_.

"I wasn't worried about it _before_ ," Clint snaps, because really. Everything was _fine_ before, and if they could, through the magic of higher brain function and common human sense, manage to not kill each other, it stands to reason that they could _also_ have managed to withstand the urge to sort themselves into pack order. There were plenty of coalitions of unaligned solitaries that worked just fine, and _they_ would have worked just fine without throwing the Hulk and the world's most obnoxious mouth into beta rivalry. 

There's chocolate syrup sitting out on the counter. Clint squeezes way too much into his mug, shoves it into the microwave then turns and leans back against the counter to wait out the thirty seconds he punches into the keypad, frowning at the line where the kitchen tile turns into dining room hardwood. 

"Maybe I just have beta sorting reflexes," he offers.

\-----

Natasha spends an entire practice session knocking Tony over. Tripping him, flipping him over her hip, or, once, just shoving him when she catches him already off his balance and sending him sprawling. Just to make sure he knows who's boss and doesn't think to try anything with her. 

Everybody is losing their mind, but Steve doesn't seem bothered. He does offer Natasha an awkward little fist-bump that makes her smile and makes Tony comment on _like watching your dad try to high five_ , but he doesn't try any funny business and no one tries any funny business with Bruce, which isn't that surprising for Natasha, but even Tony is laying off.

It's unexpectedly civilized behavior, for betas, but Steve idly stroking his back while they're cooling down later isn't exactly regular either. Clint could peel himself off the mats and leave, or at least roll over a couple times to make some distance, but it doesn't seem to matter, suddenly, if Steve is getting in on the patting thing. Even if Clint's sweat-damp and disgusting.


	2. Chapter 2

The mind-losing doesn't carry over into missions at least, and there's no power play among the betas if one doesn't count getting Hulk-smashed--and Clint really doesn't because the Hulk seems indifferent to beta rank squabbling, thank god. His uppercutting Thor is probably just coincidence, and more because Thor had gotten in his way than for social climbing reasons. 

Clint's checking his bow in the aftermath and watching Thor--unscathed by Hulk peeve--and Steve play some awkward version of keep-away, trying to stop Hulk from moving out of the battle zone and into un-evacuated areas of the city without getting pummeled, when he realizes that the whole... _thing_ isn't going to stay in the tower. It's been easy to compartmentalize it so far, but the unaligned medic--packless, by her scent--who wanders over to where he and Nat are standing glances unsubtly at her before stepping up to ask if they need attention. 

"Did you just--?" Clint starts, but can't bring himself to finish _ask her for permission_. Fucking great.

Natasha rolls her eyes and says, "It's fine, Clint."

"Stop _saying_ that."

"Hey," the medic says, holding both hands up in a gesture that's more exasperation than peace offer, "You want to get tackled by betas every other day, that's your business. I'm just doing my job here."

Clint narrows his eyes, but Natasha's already smiling and shrugging and gesturing a go-ahead. 

"You don't have to ask my-- _the_ betas," he grumbles, but lets Natasha make the call and turns himself over for medical inspection, holding his arms out to show that he's fine, limbs all attached and fully functional. He even wiggles his fingers to show that they're all accounted for. "And anyway, I've never tackled anyone over an omega in my life."

"I'm here to treat immediate injury, Hawkeye. Not your social dysfunction."

\-----

"So I'm _supposed_ to be tackling people, is what she means," Clint grouches, later, sprawled over the couch and half-over Tony, even though he's not sure why that had seemed like a good idea. Tony's got his feet on the coffee table and a tablet propped against Clint's head like he's a lap table, but his free hand is resting over Clint's neck, thumb stroking absently over the line of his jaw, scraping over the scruff Clint hasn't bothered to shave. 

"Not if you don't _want to_ ," Tony says, and scratches a bit, "Or--what are you trying to tell me? No offense, Barton, but do you know how much of a pain getting fitted for suits is? The pavement isn't exactly kind to _couture_."

Clint huffs. "I see where I stand."

Tony _mm_ -s distractedly, his finger tapping against the glass of his tablet, "And omegas don't have to tackle anybody unless you're one of those standing-changes-nothing types, hell-bent on defending your own honor or something. Seems like a lot of work. I'd leave it to Natasha." 

_Betas_ tackling the packless and unbonded isn't strictly about insult either. Omega nabbing, heat stealing, jumping in to claim a triggered, but as-yet unbonded omega is evolutionary low-risk, played right. Going after the supposed fight-losing weakest member of a pack and with any luck, usurping alpha position and possibly a whole pack, without ever having to risk a fight.

But it's not like that shit really works with anyone evolved enough to comprehend the wheel and work the satellite TV remote.

Clint grumbles, and wriggles until he can turn onto his side, dislodging both Tony's hand and his computer. Tony holds the machine up until he's settled again, then sets it back.

"Let it go, Clint." 

Clint huffs again, but Tony's tapping sounds loud with the tablet set against his skull, and it's easier to listen to the halting rhythm of that than to think up something snippy to say, especially when Tony's hand finds its way back to his neck, thumb drumming gently now instead of stroking. "If you ever decide you want to bond properly, you'll stop smelling like fair game. Or, you know. Unfair game."

"That's a sweet offer," Clint tells him. "But if I were you, I'd bill myself as more than a scent-fix. You do have _some_ personality perks."

"Of course I do. And good looks. I was talking about Steve."

Steve has personality perks, Clint is about to say, but he has the feeling he might be walking into some kind of set up, and doesn't.

 

\-----

His guts and metabolism are pretty quiet for a while, leading Clint to believe that he's done with the ramp-up and in the three-to-four-month inter-heat clear. He's about to let himself be won onto the side of _not so bad_ with a bonus side of _I got this_ , when _proper heat_ hit. At the worst possible time, which he really should have expected, because _of course_ the times he'd been safely in the tower would be duds.

"Guys," he has to say over the comm, which sucks, because he's pretty sure SHIELD listens in at least half the time, and this isn't anything he wants some Agent Lackey chuckling over. "I might need to tap out."

Silence. He's pretty sure that's a freaked-out silence, not a listening-to-you silence, because the Avengers don't really do those. Avengers listening usually involves a lot of talking-over and even yelling. 

"Are you hurt?" Steve asks, after a few seconds. Even the battle is managing to be disconcertingly quiet. Making sure everybody's getting a good damn earful.

"Uh. No. Well--no."

"That sounds really convincing, Hawkeye," Natasha pipes up, "I'll go have a look, Cap. I can get to the--"

"You don't need to have a look. I'm _fine_ ," Clint snaps, and the silence comes back, confused this time. He can mood-read their comm silence. It's kind of disturbing. "It's just an--uh. A personal issue."

"What's going on?" It's Tony this time. Clint can see him rising then dipping back behind a building a few streets over. "Did the alien dinosaur hurt your feelings, Barton? Are you taking your slings and stones and going home?"

"Wrong personal issue," Clint tells him, loosing another arrow. His hand isn't shaking, but he does _feel_ shaky. Like there's a weakness crawling through him, starting in the pit of his stomach and crawling up into his chest and making his legs feel unsteady under him. His skin, at least, seems to be okay, not back to screaming about anything heavier than thin t-shirts. His mission gear would be torture otherwise.

Steve's the first the catch on, and Clint takes back every bit of hard time he's given the good captain, when he hears, "Go ahead and clear out. Tony's got the dinosaur under control anyway." He doesn't even stumble over _dinosaur_ , but Clint doesn't comment on, _just when you think you're used to the future, huh?_ and instead gives the street a last once-over before stepping back from his post at the building ledge and into the shelter of the stairway entry. It's at least shaded, and he can stay on-hand to shoot a few explodings out if Tony's dinosaur wrangling takes a turn. 

If he doesn't die first. 

By the time the team wraps up, he's sweat-soaked and shivering. It's still pretty funny that it's Bruce who shows up to get him. He's even dressed halfway normally, which is pretty impressive following a Hulk-out. Clint tries to tell him so, but it doesn't come out sounding like a joke. It comes out sounding strangled and like he's really fucking glad to see Bruce. His _nice duds_ remark comes out sounding breathless and like he really thinks super highly of Bruce's makeshift getup.

"Hello," is Bruce's response, and he goes to a crouch nearby, not touching, arms resting on his knees, fingers laced together, "How are you doing?"

He's not sure. 

"Happy to see you," he admits, and offers a grin. It's probably a bit weird, but he'd like Bruce to come closer. To maybe touch him or at least let Clint _smell_ him. "Don't take this the wrong way, doc," he starts, but Bruce doesn't look like he's gearing up to be offended by anything. He looks a little amused, the corner of his lip turned up in a smile it looks like he's trying to suppress. "But you seem a lot sexier than usual."

"Are you hurt?" Bruce asks, not responding to that. Getting straight to business. "How was the sun?"

It's not like he's accidentally given himself sunburn on a beach trip. Clint lifts his head to glare, but he has the feeling that it's not coming off too successfully threatening. 

"Your sense of temperature might be off," Bruce explains, "A lot of omegas have bad perception at the start of heat."

"Okay." It's not an answer to the question, but Clint's pretty sure his _sense of temperature_ is fine. He's not shivering in his sleeveless gear and the shade of the stairwell seems the regular amount of shady. He pushes himself off the wall, rolling up to his knees, but when he pushes himself up, overbalances against Bruce, spilling them both onto the floor.

There's roof gravel kicked in through the door, and Bruce makes complaining noises when he lands on them, then struggles, trying to work a hand under himself to pull the stones out. "Damn it, Clint."

"Maybe _that_ perception is off," he allows, but drops his head against Bruce's shoulder for a second--surreptitiously. He's not about to admit to having caught the touching-sniffing thing--before rolling off. "But just that small one."

"Sure," Bruce says, "Balance. Who needs it?" But as soon as Clint's weight is off him, he's saying over the comm, "Cap? We've got a--" and stops, like he's trying to find a tactful euphemism with Clint right there.

"A possible false alarm," Clint pipes up, "This is what I do now."

"He smells like he's getting going," Bruce says, still for the benefit of the comms, hand going to the back of Clint's neck and rubbing slightly in apology for contradicting him. Clint considers getting huffy over the suggestion that he'd be upset by beta disagreement and beta correction, but Bruce's touch is oddly heavy, and distracting. It's almost making him feel better about his imminent nymphomania and with Bruce being a low ranked beta--for their little pack of six, anyway--it makes him wonder how okay he'd feel if it was _Steve_.

"This is insane," he tells Bruce, not offering him a hand up, even though he probably should, considering he'd knocked the guy over. The smile Bruce gives him for that is warm, and a little annoying. Smug, for a guy who's been a perpetual omega. 

"Laugh it up," Clint says, with a dark look that doesn't seem to be coming off as menacing he would like, judging by the way Bruce tilts his head. Sideways, like a perplexed dog. Like he's trying to figure out what Clint's problem is. Maybe Bruce's omega experience had been underage college frat house like Tony's. All drinking and over-educated orgy.

There's no logical reason to resent that, but Clint kind of does.

Bruce sighs at his grumpy look, but doesn't answer. Listening to something, which probably means they've cut _Clint_ out of their comm chatter. Nice.

"You should go, doc," Clint tells him, like he's showing him out of his apartment at the end of an unsuccessful date. He has a rough plan of jerking off in the stairwell, and a vague idea of wandering home later, which seems like as much thinking ahead as he needs, at the moment. 

Bruce doesn't seem to be on the same page though, because he ignores the suggestion to ask, "Do you think you can walk? Otherwise, Cap's calling the medics in."

"Is that a threat?" Clint demands, shifting a little. Putting Bruce between him and the door to the roof, getting surreptitiously downwind, which is probably fucking undignified. "Of course I can walk."

"He's a bit wobbly," Bruce tells the comms, as Clint hauls himself to his feet, supporting himself on the shaky banister instead of letting Bruce help.

" _He's_ fine," Clint snaps. "Let me back into the goddamn chat room."

There's a touch at the back of his neck, and he hadn't even noticed Bruce getting that close again. A few weeks ago, Clint wouldn't have stood for it. Might have applied a hint of elbow and said a few choice words, and half considers it now, but he's going quiet despite himself, his protest trailing off as his attention gets diverted to the feeling of Bruce's fingers curling lightly around the side of his neck, the more solid weight of his palm against the opposite side. His hand is warm, and Bruce's body--right close by now--is too. Radiating heat all along one of Clint's sides.

"Cap's on the medical channel," Natasha's voice comes, jarring Clint out of it right before he can lean full-body into Bruce. "We're all locked out."

Except Bruce, obviously, but it's nice that Steve's thought to avoid discussing the details of his sexual overdrive on what might as well be public channels--open to the team and subject to SHIELD analysis. All he needs is _Hawkeye panting for it_ to be transcribed into hard copy and put on permanent file somewhere.

He loses some time thinking about that. Not a lot and not seriously. It's more like he's intensely distracted for a bit, coming back to find that he and Bruce are in a hall, at the foot of the stairs to the roof. His bow hooked over Bruce's shoulder, and Bruce's arm around his waist, just steering rather than trying to support his weight, even though his fingers are hooked in Clint's belt.

It's like he's preventing escape, and that's actually surprisingly comforting. The pull of Bruce's grip tightening when he tries to pull away sends some kind of weird calm through him, sucking away any desire to make distance. It's not unlike the feeling of Tony rolling onto him on the practice mats, just more welcome now that his brain is going honestly haywire. The gentle pressure of Bruce's hand and the guiding press of his body is grounding instead of dully alarming. 

"--shouldn't have brought him out here," Tony's saying, on the regular channel. He doesn't have a chance to elaborate before Steve puts the ax to it, telling him to wait till they're off air.

\-----

The medic is the sarcastic solitary again, and Clint glares before she can ask Bruce for permission to touch him. "I can still break your neck," he tells her, "In under three seconds." It's the sort of threat that would get him a ticket to a mandatory therapy session. Under ordinary circumstances, there's not that much leeway for threatening the well being of SHIELD's emergency personnel, but on the brink of heat, he's also considered on the brink of sanity, and not expected to be entirely balanced. It's a bit infuriating to hear himself validating that expectation.

"Don't worry," she says, misunderstanding the reason for his peeve, "I'm not about to crotch block the Avengers," and rolls her eyes. 

That's probably a euphemism for how she has zero interest in making Clint her own, and maybe an attempt to remind him that he's not easy exactly pickings, considering who's on his beta front, even if he _is_ starting to look a little ragged. She's mostly failing at that second one. Tact-wise anyway. "I didn't _lose_ ," Clint tells her, not really in warning but more because he _smells_ like someone who lost a hand-to-hand grapple against an unarmed Tony Stark. "It was a fluke." 

"Uh-huh. Get in the rig. We're your ride home." 

"It was Nat's plan."

"Looks like that worked out for her. Get in the damn rig."

\-----

They beat the rest of the team back, and Clint suspects a debrief is at fault, maybe involving some yelling over why he was in the field at all, since they're not going to be able to keep the biological repercussions of their team bonding effort under wraps. Someone's going to have to explain why Clint and Bruce have cut out, when neither of them are injured, and even if the team hedges like champions, there's going to be the paramedic's report outlining why they'd left an as-yet unfinished battle site to play bus and offer rides back to the tower.

Bruce leaves him alone so they can both shower and so Clint can ditch his mission gear, but by the time he's hunting around for a t-shirt, the skin-crawling feeling is starting and every touch makes goose bumps rise on his skin, which is weird because he's not cold. Or not cold yet. That might still be in the works. He's not sure if he should be ticking off boxes, going through the list of ramp-up symptoms, or if the whole collection is hit or miss--maybe manifesting, maybe not--now that his body's decided it's figured this shit out.

His skin feels raw under the rough scrub of his towel--scratchy and unpleasant and like the little cotton loops of the terrycloth have turned into bristles--but it starts to settle into that indefinite restless feeling by the time he's dug to the bottom of his _ratty things_ drawer and pulled out an old tank top. The material is thin, worn to soft near-threadlessness, and its light weight is just about bearable, even though the touch of it against his skin still sets a weird tingle crawling through him, just below the surface.

Between that and a pair of boxers--equally worn, and faded--he feels a bit under-dressed when Bruce, in a t-shirt and slacks, gives him a raised eyebrow look. 

"What?" Clint snaps, leaning in the doorway to the communal area, letting his shoulder thump with satisfying force against the frame. "You think I need a tie? Planning on having this be a formal dress shindig?"

He's being an asshole, but he's not sure Bruce is taking it seriously, or even really noticing, because he looks down at the Penn State decal on his shirt with a baffled frown. Like he thinks maybe Clint's bar for _formal dress_ is turning out to be tragically lower than he'd ever guessed.

What he says is, "Aren't you cold?"

It's somewhere in the upper nineties outside. Clint figures even heat chills can't compete, unless someone has JARVIS crank up the air-con. "That's all you have to say? And here I put on my best undies for you." 

Bruce gives him another look. Maybe about to comment on the holes burnt through one side of his tank top--courtesy of Tony Stark helping him 'fix' his bike--or the grease-smear that's proved everything-resistant by the collar of the thing. Clint tilts a hip. Does his best _sexy_ smolder, Natasha-style, and gets an exasperated snort of laughter out of Bruce.

It's satisfying. Surprisingly, stupidly satisfying. The little curl of pleasure at beta approval is _definitely_ stupid. 

"It's _your_ shindig," Bruce is saying, oblivious to Clint's crisis of dignity, "You can wear whatever you want." _I can wear whatever you want_ is implied in there, with Bruce giving him a mild questioning look, head tilted curiously.

"You want to get down to your tightie whities, you do it on your own prerogative," Clint says, "You're not using _me_ as your nudity scapegoat."

Bruce puffs. This time with more exasperation and less approval, and Clint's inner dumbass doesn't like that _at all_. It probably shows on his face before he can banish it, because Bruce's frown flattens, then curves softly in the other direction, and he gestures Clint over. His hand when he sets it on Clint's back, pretending to steer him, but exerting no pressure, is obnoxiously _nice_ , the warmth of his palm seeping quickly through the thin material and drawing the majority share of Clint's attention.

"You know the drill by now," Bruce says, giving a him a little push when he starts to shift restlessly. "Food. Fluids. The others will be back soon."

"The drill sucks," Clint complains, not going in the direction Bruce is trying to encourage him to go, through scientist-grade shoves and obnoxious poking. "Quit _batting_ at me. You're as bad as Tony." 

_That's_ done with enough calculation that it's possible that it's _Clint_ who's as bad as Tony, taking advantage of the beta-equals rivalry _he'd_ insisted they stop trying to sort out to manipulate Bruce into touching him more. Clint grimaces at the realization that he'd really, really like the patting thing to come back, but it makes Bruce take his hands completely off, stepping back with his palms open and up like he thinks that Clint thinks that he might be a threat.

"Fine," Clint sighs, "Hit me up with the tea. And the--the whatever you've got."

"Steve's hamburger helper casserole thing okay?"

Clint drops into a chair and pulls his feet up to sit cross-legged. "Comfortingly trashy," he says, and gives a thumbs-up in case his approval isn't clear enough, then drops both hands to drum briefly against the table top. "But put some tabasco and more cheese over the top of it." Bruce looks like he's going to make the disapproving puff again, but then doesn't and just gets out a plate and the pan from the fridge, setting them both on the counter while he finds a spoon and maybe a cheese grater. 

"And some crunched up Doritos," Clint adds.

\-----

He makes it through most of the meal, a bottle of sports drink and half a pot of tea before the others get back, and by then his skin's gone from uncomfortable to what he can only describe as _sparking_ \--uncomfortable prickling like strong static bringing up goose bumps and making the hair on his arms stand on end. He's also given up on dignity and face-saving and pulled Bruce into the chair next to him so he can lean up against him and inhale the soothing scent of what tragically isn't Steve. At least Bruce has the decency to drape an arm over his shoulders, hand resting at the curve of his neck, stroking gently with his fingertips. 

"I see you didn't wait for us to get the show on the road," Tony's voice cuts in, accompanied by a lot of clomping and the sounds of the rest of the team talking and moving about and breathing in the other room. "Just abandon us. That's fine. We don't mind explaining why we had a half-heated omega on a roof in the sun in a fight. I'm sorry, Barton, but we had to spill the beans. We're officially on file now as a big happy family, under Steve, with truth, justice, and blah blah blah. How are you doing?"

Lousy, is what Clint wants to say. And, shut up. And, desperately, _come here_. But he doesn't.

"There some new kitchen dresscode?" Tony goes on, leaning over the counter towards them. Tactlessly obvious in his attempt to get a whiff of how far along Clint's getting. "Do you want the rest of us to join in? Because I can do that _right now_."

Bruce's stroking turns into a more solid pat. Maybe going for reassuring, even though something about it is sort of gloating and proprietary. Clint's willing to put up with it for now, even though it might lead into another beta spat. "You might want to keep your tie on," Bruce says, "He said something about formal wear."

"I'm not taking dress-up instruction from a man who's got little fishes on his boxers."

Clint looks down. "They're footballs."

"Even worse." 

"That's rude," Clint grumbles, snugging up a little more solidly against Bruce, which he should probably be at least a little self-conscious about. Later. "If it wasn't for you guys and your let's-play-house initiative--"

"I didn't see you complaining back when you thought it'd be an easy win," Tony grins, "Or maybe back when you thought you'd have access to hot omega scientist." He peers smugly over his shades. 

"I _am_ pretty irresistible," Bruce says, but gently, his hand moving from Clint's shoulder to stroke over his ribs. Bruce's scent is calm. Light. It reminds Clint vaguely--in some random association way that Bruce might not appreciate--of his herbal teas, or of the potpourri Natasha uses to keep her SHIELD locker from smelling entirely like old boots. 

It's pretty weird for that to be so appealing.

There's a scuffing sound--footsteps--and then a hand on his neck, and fingers in the short hair at the back of his head. Tony smells like spice and warmth and something that has the same cozy kitchen feeling as slightly burnt toast. He either hadn't noticed before, or neither of them had been putting off scent this strong until now. Clint can't tell if they're kicking up in reaction to him or if it's his own senses getting sharper.

"You're supposed to do what I want," Clint grouches.

"Why? You think you're not spoiled enough already?" Tony's bullshit doesn't have its usual ribbing tone. He sounds like he'd be perfectly fine with laying the inappropriate touch and sub-par cooking on even heavier than he's already been. He's probably mentally rifling through recipe cards already.

"I ate Cap's hamburger thing," Clint tells him, to stop him from firing up the stove and maybe the oven on top of it.

"Oh." He can tell by the silence that Tony and Bruce are exchanging a look over his head. It's possible he's not making as much sense as he thinks. "That's...good. Actually, that's horrifying, but I was going to make you a Skittle omelet, so hey." The next pause is a little longer, Tony's other hand coming to rest on him, pressing against his face briefly before he pulls back, stroking over the top of Clint's head. 

Tony's cooking isn't quite _that_ bad, but Clint's still pretty glad that Tony's patting him instead of rattling around in a drawer selecting spatulas. The skin-sparking feeling coming from the touch of his hands and Bruce's is actually _good_. A fuck of a lot better than the going-nowhere static feeling. Clint wants them to...kind of...something.

"He's getting kind of warm," Tony's saying, pitched in a way that means he's talking to someone more distant than Bruce. 

"Want to take my temperature, Doctor Stark?" Clint offers, not really meaning to be aiming cheesy innuendo at Tony, but just because his mouth is on runaway. He can't be _that_ warm, because he doesn't have that muzzy-headed feverish feeling, but a second later Steve's joining in, and if he had any breath to, Clint would laugh at how they probably look, all gathered around him.

If he had any _brains_ to. All he's managing to compute is _Steve Steve Steve Steve_ , and the fact that everybody smells just the slightest bit _off_ , but in a way that's really really good.

And then they're gone and there's just Bruce's calm herbal-tea-Natasha's-locker scent and Clint feels his brain fumble around for its functional pieces, coming back together into something that's not really working smoothly, but at least isn't so utterly obsessed with the way Steve smells like not any alpha, but his--their--alpha.

He still kind of wants to bite fuck mark claim--Kind of wants to have a sane conversation with Steve about what they both want to do about this, but it's a little more distant now, and something he can think through. 

"Not so swamped?" Steve asks, and Clint turns to see that he's retreated to lean against a counter, left of the microwave, and that Tony's been expelled from the kitchen entirely, relegated back to rubber necking from the other side of the room dividing counter.

"Nah. I'm alright. I'm--" He has his hand fisted in the front of his boxers. Clutching the fabric and not himself, thank god, but the chance that he hasn't been rocking against that pressure is probably pretty low to nonexistent. "Oh, hell."

Even Tony has the decency not to comment, but Bruce does rub the back of his neck which isn't doing much that's useful, but just reminding Clint of how close in proximity he is to a human being he likes and respects while he's fucking leaking through his shorts. That _hell_ wasn't at all for what the others think. He should have pulled on other-- _more_ \--pants. He's probably going to leave a mess when he gets up.

Mostly naked in the kitchen had been such a bad plan.

The patting touching scenting thing's gone on some kind of temporary hiatus. Bruce's hand is still on him, but it's just resting lightly on his shoulder now, and Bruce is leaning away, giving him space. It's a bit aggravating that all of them--including Tony--seem to have a better grip on themselves than Clint's managing. But then, he's been putting up with this shit on what feels like it's been a continuous basis rather than catching the occasional whiff of future-heat.

"You better not be forming a queue," Clint tells them, when he notices Tony's moved away from where he'd been leaning over the dividing counter to linger in the entryway. "I don't think I'm up for--" _Orgy_ sounds too intense a possibility to acknowledge, even if it's possibly the accurate term. He might be lacking in status-all-'rounder experience, but he doesn't really want to be thinking about closing that knowledge gap just yet, even if the idea of team nudity isn't seeming quite as hysterical as it maybe should.

"I have to--I've gotta go." And maybe lock himself in a bathroom until he's no longer a danger to himself and others. "And I'd really like you guys to clear out so I can. You know. Do that."

Tony smirks, and his lounge in the doorway goes somehow _slinky_. It's a lot more ridiculous than sexy, but it also makes Clint feel a wash of stupid fondness. 

"Baby," Tony starts, in what's close to Bruce's _let's look at this with logic and reason_ tone, but then Steve is herding him out and away and whatever he was going to say turns into whining protest, trailing in from a distance.

\-----

Natasha gives him about two hours before she decides to show up, which is also around the time that he's realizing--sluggishly--that cranking up his shower to full cold blast isn't going to do much to help this time, either. The spray feels icy and shocking against his heated skin, bringing up goose bumps and kicking up shivers that quickly set in deep, turning into shudders that he can't kick even once he crawls out and slumps against the wall wrapped in his towel. The cold doesn't do anything to banish the hollow, empty feeling that's growing in his chest. It does knock his temperature down a peg, but he's shivering hard enough that it's not much of an improvement, general misery wise, and it doesn't help at all when he realizes that his towel isn't really big enough to pull around his shoulders and cover his ass with at the same time.

It's not doing shit all to hold in his body heat now that it's as wet and cold as he is, and between that and Natasha talking at him from the other side of the door, he turfs his initial urge to hunker down under it on the bath mat, and shoves his way to his feet, holding the damp towel closed at his hip with half-numb, clumsy fingers. At least he's part way decent when he cracks the door open to tell Natasha, "Naked here," with as much _fuck off_ as he can muster.

Natasha frowns crookedly, but the tilt of her head is a lot more questioning than annoyed or worried. She smells like nothing specifically--other than beta and _high ranking I kicked everyone's butt_ \--but the calm she's radiating with it is at least slowing things down enough that he can start to compute his towel and wardrobe situation with a little more coherency. Enough, anyway, to tell her, "I'm okay," and stick his hand out the door to make vague gestures in her face, indicating the general direction of his dresser, "I need a shirt or something."

Clothes are at least something to focus on that isn't jerking off on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, or breaking his fingers to keep from jerking off on the bathroom floor and driving himself even more nuts, both of which seem like less than choice options now that Natasha's _right there_. Even if his old clothes smell like heat and like slick and like omega desperation. 

His _room_ smells like it. It's making him nuts, and the team seems somehow a lot more appealing when they're not in the immediate area, breathing down his neck, which might be a grass is greener thing going on, but the patting sniffing and space invading is looking a whole lot more manageable at the moment than the idea of no one touching him at all. Of _days_ of this bullshit.

"And maybe pants," he adds, around the door.

It's probably a sign of him spreading the crazy that Natasha doesn't even make a comment before going to find him something clean to wear. That she's willing to just do his bidding without question. The omega smell on his laundry is probably drifting out into the bedroom. Clint pulls the door shut again. Calls, "And ask Tony if he has an incinerator."

\-----

Tony probably does have an incinerator, or at least something that could serve the purpose, but Natasha probably hadn't taken the request seriously enough to actually call and ask, because she doesn't say anything about permanent clothing disposal when she comes back. Just shoves a fresh change through the gap he opens--enough for her hand to poke through the gap--and acts considerate of his privacy in a way that's actually a little weird for her. She doesn't even try to peer in through the opening when she asks, "Doing okay in there?"

Other than being a biohazard, he doesn't say, but when he comes out Natasha gives him an amused look anyway, like she can hear his mental grouching. Clint glares. Or tries to. The cool air rushing into the bathroom carries Natasha with it and her of-nothing scent reminds him suddenly of the cold and of open, empty spaces and that's either beautiful or really sad. 

Or his brain is just completely shot. He's starting to close the door again, in self defense, but Natasha stops him, blocking the swing with one hand and giving up her attempt at kind, concerned beta in favor of a more regular version of vaguely-impatient-Natasha.

"Get a grip, Clint. Steve's half convinced I'm up here talking you off a ledge. Nobody cares that you smell like omega."

He doesn't just smell like omega. He smells like omega-going-nuts, but he doesn't think Natasha needs that pointed out. His bedroom is warm with escaped steam and with omega-going-nuts. It's not like she can miss it, even if she's doing a pretty decent job of pretending to. 

The hand she rests in the small of his back, and the oddly gentle way she's trying to steer him with it, is pretty much a dead give-away. "I'm pretty good with ledges," Clint tells her, going where he's pushed. 

The cold-winter-empty-space scent is like a bubble around Natasha, strong as fuck if he presses his nose against her hair, falling away to a pleasant buzz if he pulls back too far. He can't tell if that's what Natasha actually smells like, or if it's just his own associations. If Bruce or Tony would be getting the same empty-open-cold sense, or something altogether different. If her being a beta has any effect on it.

Wonders how she'd smelled as an omega.

His brain is going straight offline. Or online, but in a way that's a little fucked up.

"Hey," Clint says, letting himself be nudged towards his bed and ignoring the way his brain is stumbling around, trying to avoid having any ideas about what Nat might have in mind. "Hey." He's not sure what he's trying to tell her. He doesn't really have anything to follow up with, doesn't really want anything other than her attention to focus back on him.

He's really, really glad that she's not Tony. Tony would have a field day with that.

Natasha drops onto his bed, graceful, with none of the flop that he can feel coming back into his limbs, making him wobbly again, and off kilter. Drunk on everything. 

He can tell Natasha's enjoying it and considers telling her where she can shove her smirk, but it feels like too much trouble. She'd know it was just bullshit anyway. She can probably smell that he's pleased as fuck to have her close by. At least the entertained look slides off her face when he climbs in after her, letting Nat decide how close is close enough.

It ends up being just touching, and at slightly off angles to each other, with Natasha propped up on one elbow, chin in the cup of her palm. 

"I'm only going to be ungross for maybe five more minutes," Clint warns, not rolling up against her like he really, really wants to. It feels higher risk with Nat than with Bruce. More to screw up, and with the added weirdness of being in his bed on top of it. Things could be on the brink of getting real weird between them.

Natasha snorts, then tries to make it sound more sympathetic, but Clint knows her too well for it to really work. The gentle sound she tries to turn it into is pretty unconvincing, but it's familiar and all of a sudden, he has a lot of sympathy for the touching patting thing. Natasha would probably let him get away with it, too, at the moment.

She gets to it before him, her hand warm and oddly careful against his still shower-chilled face. Like all of a sudden, she thinks he'd be easy to damage. Searching his face and tipping his head back to get a good look at his eyes, like she thinks he might be concussed. 

"Please don't get weird," Clint tells her, "You were the last sane one."

"Oh? I thought you thought that was you."

"I might be questioning that now."

Natasha's smirk comes back. A little crooked this time, like only one side of her face is really managing to act normal. Clint appreciates the effort enough that he pretends not to notice when she ducks her head a little to inhale in the vicinity of the side of his head. Not subtle, but not quite close enough that he can call her on it.

Not that he really wants to. It's a great excuse to shift a little closer, to get inside her scent bubble. The note of _kickass beta_ in it is calming, slowing him down some, even as it makes him very aware of how close and warm she is. Of how cold he is, and of how much he wants _more_. He barely notices the low, long sound that comes out of him when Natasha's hand ghosts down his side.

"I'm going to start thinking this was what you had planned from the start," Clint grouches, trying not to ruin his pissed-off tone by shivering, "if you don't stop acting like your scheming's coming together."

"I'm making the best of things," Natasha tells him. Her fingers are tickling through the short hair around his ear, teasing. The way she's trying to keep from smiling is pushing her lips into a pout.

Clint rolls away again, onto his back. Presses the heels of his hands into his eyes so he won't have to look at that, because fuck. Fuck, she's killing him.

"I can't tell if you're just being stubborn," Natasha says. He can hear the amusement in her voice, but also the way it's softening into what might real worry. "But remember that you have options here. _Fun_ options."

Clint moves a hand to narrow an eye suspiciously at her. She has a brow raised playfully. "Yeah? You want to tell me about the amazing omega experience you're basing all this on? That you supposedly had in the Russian underworld? Or is this _Stark advice_ you're passing on?" Because it sounds like it could be.

Natasha snorts. "It wasn't the _underworld_ ," she says, "And there were other girls there. We were in the same boat." 

Right. Clint covers his face again. Doesn't imagine anything at all relating to that. "So you are here to kill me. I knew you were being too nice for this to not be a hit." 

"I'm just here to make sure you don't do anything stupid or fall over something while you decide if you're planning on getting a grip." Her palm is flat against his head, her voice soft but close like she's leaning in. 

Clint asks, "Can you wear your espionage dress anyway?" 

That's regular joke flirting. It just comes out of his mouth on reflex, without thought, and he half expects it to make things awkward again, but instead it's just Nat making a pretend considering sound before saying, "I don't think so, Barton," like he's just suggested it as appropriate mission wear, like everything is normal. Clint drops his hands to look at her, and she takes it as a cue to lie the rest of the way down and throw an arm over him. He tries to ignore how her proximity is slowing him down, making him feel relaxed and sluggish. His damp hair is a little cold in the air conditioned room, but the rest of him is warmed back up and probably about to going to start having very specific, very graphic ideas.

"Nat--" He's getting restless again, squirming closer and against and he's really about to embarrass himself here. "You've gotta go." 

"Tony and Steve aren't an underworld," she says, and it takes him long seconds to pick up the thread. "They're possibly the _opposite_ of an underworld."

"Yeah." Her hand is on the side of his neck. He's not sure if he's agreeing to that--to what letting her do that means--or to what she's saying.

"If you weren't so dense, you'd realize you have the whole thing backwards," Natasha's saying, but he can't follow the track of it, too distracted by the feeling of her moving against him as she shifts to slide off the end of the bed. "But fine. I'm going. You stay there."

That last is firm. Clint's heard beta command, and _used_ beta command once or twice, but he's never been the target of it. It's oddly okay. Not the wrecking ball slam through his free will that he'd been expecting, but a gentle coercion he could shake off if he really wanted to. Mostly, it's just the deep sense of _Natasha really wants you to_ , instead of _you have to_. 

"I don't want you to get lost trying to find your own kitchen or something," she explains, "or fall out a window."

"I won't." Get lost. Fall out a window. Move.

Natasha hesitates. "If you need anything, call me. Or anyone."

"Yeah."

"Promise, Clint."

That's not in her new ordering-about voice. She wants his genuine agreement, and that's turning out to be a hard part of this. He'd just expected to lose his mind, lose all decision making ability, be at the mercy of whatever pheromone poisoning inspired, and hope for the best.

The option to agree is kind of surprisingly intimidating.

"Fine. Okay. _Fine_. If I end up stranded in the living room, I promise to JARVIS you."

\-----

The bed smells like Natasha, but even more like fading-away beta. Clint rolls over into her abandoned spot to stay close to it, but her scent's not clinging, or else is being overpowered by his own. Ramping up again now that no one's around, trying to signal _here here here_. 

The lights are down dim, to be easy on his eyes, and the apartment feels emptier with the gloom. The muscles in his back are aching, and he can feel his heart thudding too fast. Like he's been running. Like he's found himself unexpectedly alive after falling too far. 

His skin's sensitive and raw feeling, and he's pumping slick again like his body thinks that's the solution to this mess. Like that will clear things right up. He's empty and hollow and alone and ridiculous tears are blurring his vision. 

He's a mess. He's losing his goddamn mind, but nobody's coming and his body is screaming with want and hunger and his own hands aren't doing a damn fucking thing. His own scent is the only thing he can smell. He'd know how to find one of them if Natasha hadn't told him to keep his ass planted.

\-----

Too much time passes spent sprawled on his back, trying to even his breathing and not think about how miserable heat is and how much the Avengers suck for not fixing him, being there, calling Steve, someone should really be helping him out here.

He's drifting back to coherency, and more than half expecting Natasha to show up again, but it's Steve who turns up just in time to catch Clint hanging half-off the bed, trying to snag the edge of Tony's perverted gift box, and regretting a little that he'd shoved it so far under, because now that they're starting to seem like a good idea again, he's also more than a little clumsy with heat, over-warm and breathing hard. 

"What--" Steve starts, then goes with, "Are you alright?" and offers, "Scoot back. I'll get whatever you dropped."

"Didn't," Clint starts, then realizes how sudden Steve's appearance is, and sits up quickly enough that he nearly over-balances and tips to the floor, catching himself at the last minute by throwing his weight back into a klutzy sprawl. "I didn't drop anything. Never mind. Go away." And for good measure, "Where's Nat?"

Steve doesn't go. He does lean in the doorway--probably going for non-threatening and casual, but he's still blocking the exit which is really not one of Clint's favorite things right now--and his nose twitches like he's holding back a sneezing fit. "We drew straws," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's not sure if he should follow up with a smile or just keep looking exasperated.

Clint smirks, or tries to. He thinks it's probably coming out a little off. Says, "I'm going to fire my doorman," and Steve's eyes go to the ceiling briefly.

"I don't think that's going to work," he says, "but I can go if you really want. JARVIS said you were having problems."

Problems. Clint snorts and tugs his blanket over his lap, not caring if it looks defensive. "You could call it that." He gestures vaguely at himself, and tries to remember what his _I got this_ slouch looked like. "It's just the--It's nothing," he shrugs. If Steve smells the lie on him, he doesn't mention it. Which is either nice of him, or tactically sound if he wants to hang around to get into Clint's pants.

It's an asshole thing to think of Steve. Especially when Clint's the one who's about two heartbeats away from being utterly obsessed with the idea of fucking until his brain melts from it. 

Steve's gaze drops back to where Clint had been hanging over the side of the bed, like he's searching the shadows and pretending that he's not a huge snoop. "You still want help?" he asks, not indicating his willingness to rummage under Clint's bed this time, "Doesn't have to be anything more than last time, if you don't want."

"Last time?" It takes a few seconds to drag the recollection back up from the depth of his heat-fuzzy brain. It somehow seems a lot less awkward to just wake up to having had Steve summoned than to have to actually tag him in, but probably not as awkward as showing up at his door in the dead of morning stinking of heat. "Yeah. Okay. But slow, okay? Unless you want me to jump you. I won't be held responsible if you--" 

The first touch makes his brain fuzz the rest of the way out. Everything fading into a hum of static and white noise like comms going out, except for the drag of Steve's fingers on the side of his face, tickling over the curve of his ear before settling more firmly. Sliding through his hair with an improbably loud scraping noise until Steve's palm is resting fitted against his head, cupping the curve of his skull. It's not exactly the way Clint would have expected an alpha to handle this kind of situation.

It is, on the other hand, more or less how he'd expect _Steve_ to, give or take a few doses of pheromonal interference.

"This isn't really appropriate," Clint tells him, but leans his head into the touch, trying to get Steve to move that hand lower. Or add the other. "People will think you're playing favorites. You're going to have to make bedroom visits for everybody now. And I know for a fact that Tony will appreciate it if you put a bit of hip into your entrance."

He's mostly babbling, trying to get his brain back online, but it's a lost cause with Steve having moved so suddenly to his side. The weight of his hand gets a little heavier, tugging Clint against him until he's breathing some combination of _Steve_ and _alpha_ , with echoes of something similar to heat beneath, and it takes more than a second to figure out that that's something _he's_ doing to Steve. Pulling a scent response out of him the way he had Tony and Bruce. 

"I think they'll understand," Steve's saying, his other hand coming almost tentatively to Clint's side, pausing for a second before falling away again as Steve shifts away. 

Something makes a weird squeaky sound, then stops when Clint startles at it. He blinks at the sudden silence, listening, then winces. "Was that me? Jesus." 

Steve laughs. Steve's turning out to have a touch of asshole under all that American Way earnestness, but at least he's not moving out of scent range, because having him close by is doing a lot to calm the electric crawling feeling and the faint _threat threat threat_ siren that he's been associating with heat and with the way his body's not quite his own.

Well. That and the gross siren. He can tell Steve's trying to catch the scent of heat and slick and that--he's not sure how to feel about that. It would be time for more embarrassed showers, maybe, except that Steve's scent is changing more the longer he hangs out. Going from his usual quiet, solid alpha _I'm here_ to something that's making Clint a little crazy.

A little _more_ crazy. 

He needs to be out of his clothes. He needs _Steve_ to be out of his clothes. And then he'd like to do a lot of things that might negatively affect the respect Steve has for him in the morning.

He's making harsh panting noises, but Steve doesn't seem at all worried. Watching him with what's almost a Tony-like smug expression. Smiling and looking pleased with himself, like he'd had anything to do with Nat's stupid plan or like Clint had coincidentally bounced into him because of his personal athletic prowess rather than because they'd misjudged Thor's takedownability.

"As soon as you want," Steve offers, sounding gentle but still looking like he's on the verge of grinning, "I can grab whatever you were trying to get out from under the bed."

It's not a secret knowing grin that he's on the verge of, which means Tony hadn't told him anything. And that's a bit surprising because privacy doesn't seem like a Tony kind of concept. Really, Steve looks like he's genuinely thrilled to be here. "Fine." Clint says, and flops down so he can pretend that he's covering his face for rest-related reasons and not because he's pretty sure that the look on Steve's face when he pulls the box out will be mortifying. "Go ahead. Just don't blame me if you decide you want your innocence back."

\-----

Steve's been an alpha before. Clint should have remembered that, because even if Steve hasn't been a _modern world_ alpha, he's not particularly taken aback by anything about the toys except maybe the number of them. And the colors. Possibly the number of buttons on some of them and but at least there aren't any flashy lights or garish sound effects so far.

"Don't look that impressed," Clint tells him, ignoring the fact that he's twisted around to lie over Steve's leg, stretched out on his belly with his arms hooked over Steve's thigh and his body pressed sideways into Steve's. It's possible Steve's too distracted by Tony's box of perversion to notice, which would be great, because Clint's not entirely willing to admit that he's _trying_ to press up against him, versus just accidentally finding himself there.

"Tony made these?" Steve's got the contents of the box spilled across the bed in a mess of color and metallics. Clint's got a pretty good map now of what does what and he's pretty sure that the flush warming Steve's ears means that he's got a pretty good idea as to how Clint's been managing the past few weeks.

"Well I sure as fuck didn't _buy them_." Clint says. He means to snap it, but it comes out softer. He'd really like Steve to put a hand on his back. Maybe run it up and down his spine the way Bruce had earlier, but Steve's turning Safety Orange around in his fingers, fiddling with it and frowning at the buttons. It's not the most impressive of the controls Tony's equipped the toys with, but Steve's about to have an interesting experience if he keeps fussing with it.

Clint grins and squirms against Steve and the mattress, the discomfort in his skin replaced by hunger for touch and friction now that Steve's so close and radiating alpha. The idea of Steve and sex toys seems a lot more agreeable the longer Clint spends inhaling his scent, getting a little high on it. It's making his limbs feel heavy and slow and narrowing his brain function down to a single-minded _touch touch touch_ that Steve's being lax on catering to. 

The sudden buzz of the toy is too loud, and Clint jerks his head up at the same time that Steve drops the thing like it's gone hot, clipping Clint in the head with his elbow when he recoils. "Geez, Cap. Ow."

"Oh my god," Steve says, about the toy, oblivious to the fact that he's just whocked Clint in the skull, then repeats, "Oh my god," when the thing starts expanding at one end. Then says it a third time when it keeps going.

It's hilarious, but then Steve turns to look at him with a look that's something like impressed, but with a weird, unreadable edge, and Clint stops rubbing his head to duck away from it, reaching over Steve's leg to reach for the toy and turn it off. "Yeah. It's pretty--It's just _Tony_. It's not like he asked me for specs." Or like Clint had _used_ everything inside the box of Starkness, or ever planned to. 

Steve keeps looking at the toy like he's not sure how to respond to it, so Clint gives it a little toss, bouncing it off the end of the mattress and, with any luck, back into the box. "Go home. Stop scaring Cap."

It's not a good joke, kind of awkward and not in his usual wisecrack tone, but it breaks whatever unease is still be hanging between them because Steve laughs--also a little awkward, but the amusement in it is genuine and easy--and his hand moves, _finally_ , to Clint's back. Stroking a little, unconsciously making contact in a way that Steve's been keeping to a minimum. It's a bit weird to realize that it's the betas who've been climbing all over him all this time, and even if it's going to make Steve back off again, there's not a damn thing Clint can do to bite back the little moan that comes out of him like he's been starved for alpha _anything_.

"Clint?"

"Don't--" His breath is coming--not hard, but in pathetic little hitches. "Don't make a thing out of it."

Steve obliges by changing the subject, asking, "You want me to get out so you can--?" and nods at the pile of plastic.

"No. God, no. I'd rather--I mean. You could stay, if you want." It's not as nonchalant as he'd like. It comes out a lot closer to the plaintive tone he's heard from omegas in the past, sounding embarrassingly insecure instead of competently indifferent. Steve either hears the attempted _hey, whatever_ in his voice, or maybe smell the lie of it on him, because his hand moves up to the back of his head, moving through his hair in a way that's comforting but possessive all at once. Steve, going nowhere unless he's thrown out.

"Any of these you okay with?" he asks, "If you don't want to--"

"Go all the way?" Clint interrupts, meaning _be tied by your knot_. It turns out that it's not that satisfying to make fun of Cap when he mostly wants to maybe have Cap in his mouth. "Sure. Pick something. I'll tell you if I want to veto."

\-----

Clint's first veto is Steve's shirt, which Steve seems happy to give in to, peeling out of it and letting it drop over the side of the bed with un-military sloppiness, rushed before he checks himself and slows down. The hand he slides under Clint's shirt is careful, but a little more insistent now than just trying to be soothing and _there_.

It's distracting as hell, and Clint twists against it, then twists again, trying to get closer and get more touch and maybe see if he can push himself through Steve's skin in a reverse of one of Bruce's experiments, cells smushing together instead of pulling apart.

He's not even thinking about what _that_ means, making do for now with the way Steve seems to be surprisingly on-board with what Clint thinks of as The Tony Solution, getting less tentative about testing buttons and settings, a thoughtful frown on his face now rather than the mildly scandalized one from earlier. He's also making funny soothing noises, a distracted _shh, shh_ that's not really doing much to make Clint feel shushed. His bones feel like they're turning into something liquid and molten and powerless, that weak-limbed feeling washing through him and making him feel shaky and too hot/cold at the same time. Like the mounting heat is both burning him from the inside and, like fever, throwing his temperature perception enough to make the air in the room feel unpleasantly cold, raising goose bumps on his skin.

He's too distracted by it to notice that Steve's gathering up his shirt, tugging it a little as he strokes circles over Clint's back until he can pull it off over Clint's head in one easy move, murmuring, "Let me get it off your arms, Clint. It's okay."

Clint manages an "Uh-huh," and summons the coordination to get out of the thing--or to let Steve get him out of the thing--and only realizes once it's off how much the fabric had been bothering him. How much better the scraped raw feeling is without it, and with Steve freer to touch more of him. It feels pretty fantastic. There's probably some kind of opportunity Steve's missing out on in the omega heat masseuse industry, if that's a thing.

"You wanna get out of--?" Steve starts, and nods at the rest of him in what should probably be reading pretty blatantly as a hint. Clint's not really taking hints right now. Or anything more subtle than maybe a blow to the head or a bucket of ice water. He can hear the gears grinding in his _own_ head, and feels slow and stupid.

"Out of?"

Steve's hand on his back slides to tug at his waistband, not trying to pull it off or down, but just indicating. Like not saying it out loud will somehow make this whole thing less weird. Or maybe like he thinks _saying it_ will make Clint freak the hell out, because the next thing Steve does is smooth his palm down over the elastic like he's trying to flatten wrinkles out of it and say, "Only if you want." He's really fucking contained for a guy who smells the way he does. Like he's halfway to heat himself.

"I--uh--" It's the best answer Steve's going to get, and if he's disappointed or confused, he doesn't show it, grinning when Clint rolls onto his back and tugs Steve's hand--momentarily lifted to let him make that move--back to rest low on his belly.

Steve goes along with it, but only until the tips of fingers are tucked under the edge of the fabric, and then he stalls again, and Clint hears himself making frustrated noises and can't stop. He's about half a second to _please, please_ , or maybe, _fucking Christ, Steve, what the hell_. What's coming out of his mouth is, "Come on, come on, come on," interspersed with harsh breathing. He'd stick his own hand down his shorts, but there's something about the heat, or Steve being right there, or the combination of those two things, that makes it impossible. He needs-wants- _needs_ Steve to do it. 

Wants Steve to _want_ him to have that. Wants to please him and earn it and--

He must _look_ like he's losing his mind, because Steve's murmuring at him, saying, "Easy, easy. I've got you."

Steve's waiting for him to explode. Or for his brain to melt into liquid and dribble out his ear. "Is there some magic word I'm supposed to know?" Clint demands, arching his back to press up against Steve's hand, his own fingers scrabbling at Steve, rubbing against him like he's trying to scrub his scent onto Steve--or Steve's onto him--or to claw his way into Steve's skin. "Some kind of-- _uh_ \--Captain America go password?"

"Should we have set one up?" Steve asks, mildly teasing. Clint's really not appreciating his sense of humor at the moment, but at least Steve's taking his question as enough of a _go_ for him to slide his hand lower on Clint's belly, underneath fabric, and then finally, finally, _finally_ wrap his fingers around Clint's cock. It's a little tentative, like he's planning on just holding it, or waiting for Clint to object, but after a second he strokes smoothly, once, and then again. Slow. Fingers dipping to gather slick from between Clint's thighs. 

Oh god. He'd forgotten all about the wet collecting there, about how his shorts are sticking to him, and how he's probably making a goddamn mess of his sheets, but it's not the wet gross feeling from last time. It's slippery and smooth and it's letting Steve pick up the pace. The least hot thing-ness of this is showing a bit of improvement.

More than a bit of improvement. Steve's pulling long, helpless sounds out of him, but Clint doesn't even give a shit, rocking his hips up, trying to keep up with Steve, or at least keep some sort of rhythm. He's usually a lot more coordinated in the sack, but this is just going on and on. Building until his vision is fuzzy with it. "Clothes," he manages eventually, "Clothes, Steve."

"Mine or yours?" Steve asks, but he's already pushing Clint's shorts down with his free hand, managing to shove the damp material by small increments until Clint's waning patience meets with the recollection that he has hands of his own and he manages to get his pants out of Steve's way. Shoving them until they're down around his thighs in a tangle and he can't get coordinated enough to get them the rest of the way off. Or figure out how to try without also making Steve stop.

Clint grabs for Steve's wrist and arm and hangs on, and that's maybe making things awkward again and negating the usefulness of getting mostly naked, but he's pretty sure he won't survive if Steve takes his hand away. "I can't," Clint gasps, fingers digging in, "Cant, can't. Fuck."

Steve shifts and gently pulls Clint's hands off of him, gathering them one handed to press them against the mattress above his head--Clint's pretty sure that's a _stay_ \--and then let’s go of him entirely.

He's not in the best position, sort of half pulled into Steve's lap, and with Steve reaching back to stroke his cock, but it does mean he can look up in into Steve's face, and watch his expressions. Steve has a soft-at-the-edges look that Clint's not sure he can associate with anything. Alpha-intent, but without any edge of aggression. Clint leaves his arms pulled up, stretching out, opening his body up and letting his head tip back when Steve's strokes get a little rougher. _Some_ kind of alarm should be going off around now. Should be going _nuts_ at the idea of letting himself be pulled into a position as submissive as being draped backwards, the arch of his back pushing his chest up and out. 

Instead, he's strangely okay with it, feeling warm and loose-jointed and like his muscles have turned into jelly, or at least like overstretched rubber bands, incapable of contracting to move or control his limbs. Steve stops stroking him to push his legs further apart, and that's good because Clint's not sure he'd have been able to do it on his own, even without his underwear still in a tangle around his thighs.

"Mmgh," he tells Steve, wanting to grab him. Wanting to kiss him. Wanting to roll to his belly so he can crawl the handful of inches to where Steve's straining against his pants. "Let me," he manages to pant, "Steve."

"It's okay," Steve says, quick and sharp enough that Clint thinks he must sound left of entirely sane, "Let's take care of you first, okay?"

That's not fair. Steve's got to be just about suffocating on omega scent. "Yeah. Yeah, great," Clint agrees anyway, even though it means Steve's probably going to stop touching him. Even just long enough to rearrange their bodies is too long, and when Steve _does it_ , Clint stops breathing. Shocked by the lack, the way he'd be startled by a slap.

"Steve. I--But--" His language ability is shorting out. Half of the words he's trying to form are coming out as breathless gasps as he rolls his hips against nothing. He'd been building and getting nowhere without something inside him, but now he's just hanging, hearing the blood rush in his ears. 

He's not sure if Steve moves him or if he somehow regains control of his body, but when his awareness comes back, he's breathing raggedly with his head leaning against Steve's chest, and Steve's alpha scent's gone from comforting to something that's driving Clint like fucking jet fuel, making his hands shake as he brings them up to touch skin. There's nothing like practical demonstration, and it's not like Steve can possibly miss what he's getting at when he tips Steve backwards into a sprawl so he can get between his legs and get Steve out of his pants. 

Steve's heavy and hot on his tongue and he can _taste_ alpha and it's fucking fantastic. He'd thought heat would be different--more overwhelming and desperate and ugly, but even though a part of him wants to crawl on his belly for Steve, and maybe find his betas--even Thor--and do whatever the fuck might be the equivalent of rolling over and showing his belly, he's also pretty sure he doesn't need to. Mostly, Steve's hands coming to rest against his head and throat feels steadying. More an _I've got you_ than an _I own you_. 

"Clint. Clint, slow down." Steve's not pushing him back, exactly, but he is trying to force a pace that isn't just Clint trying to swallow as much of him down as humanly possible. If he had any self-awareness anymore, it might occur to him to be embarrassed, but the possibility of that emotion is a fuzzy, distant thought. A lot less important than the way he's managing to make Steve's throat close on his words so that _slow down_ comes out tight and a little broken. "You're going to choke."

Even that sounds great, the idea of _choking on Steve_. He's been hopped up on meds and been less fucked up. Gotten hit with crazy mission shit and been _way_ less out of control. He's got one of his hands on Steve's, not sure if he's holding on, or holding Steve in place, or trying to pull him away so he can go ahead and try to take the rest of him, swallowing over and over like that will that help. 

" _Slow down_ ," Steve orders, firmer now. A note of command creeping in, and it's like a punch to the gut. The edge in his voice bypassing Clint's brain entirely, drawing reflexive obedience out of him, and _that's_ more like what he'd pictured heat to be like, except that he's not really dancing on some alpha's puppet strings, and they're not just rolling around mindlessly, blind with the need to fuck. 

Or _he_ might be, but the command in Steve's voice is grounding, and slowing down means that he can finally take a full, proper breath, and give in to Steve gently easing him back and off. Clint's only distantly aware of how he has to look, braced on shaky arms and with his mouth open and panting over Steve's cock, with Steve's hand high on his chest, almost on his throat, pressing carefully to keep him back. 

His breath is coming in fast, sharp pants. The way he might breathe if he was in horrible pain--almost hyperventilating, with the taste of Steve still on his tongue to make him even crazier with it. "Still not--" he gasps, finally settling back a little, relaxing against Steve's restraining hand, "not sure this is that sexy."

"Oh?" Steve sounds like he's suppressing a laugh, and like he's trying to not be so obvious about holding it back. Clint had been thinking of him as the sympathetic one, but now he's not so sure he hasn't been mislabeling Avengers. Steve's really not coming anywhere close to Thor's _had I known, I would have forfeited for you_ in the selflessness department.

But then, Clint's maybe not exactly the picture of altruism himself, probably. The fact that he's summoned Steve just to derail his higher brain function and maybe take advantage of him is probably testament to that.

Steve lets go of him again. Slowly, this time, like he's gauging Clint's reaction to being released. Or backing away from a bomb. "I'm alright," Clint tells him, and tries for a grin and to sound apologetic, "Sorry 'bout--" He waves a hand vaguely, indicating the space between them, hoping he doesn't have to get into more detail. "You okay?"

He can tell Steve thinks that's hilarious. Just his studied lack of reaction is enough of a tell, but he must think _Clint's_ not okay, because he takes Clint's face in both hands, tilting his face up to peer at him like Natasha had, then tugging him in to inhale along the line of his jaw.

Something in Clint is totally into it this time. He hears himself make a breathy _huh_ noise in reaction, and feels Steve thumb move, stroking a little before he sits back, not letting go.

"Take it easy," he says, and if he has _any_ idea about the way Clint's body's turned into one solid, electric nerve and is _still_ saying that, Clint's going to kill him. "Breathe, Clint."

They're sitting in a pile of Stark-made sex toys. It's amazing that Steve's not joining him in skirting the brink of hysteria, but after a minute or so, Clint feels himself pulling back from it too, and relaxes. Letting his head drop a bit to rest it against Steve's grip. 

"Okay." 

"You're doing great." Steve sounds so sincere saying it that Clint's not sure whether to snort or give into the warm flush of _totally pleased with himself_ until he realizes that _Steve's_ totally pleased with himself. Maybe getting some kind of alpha rush from the way Clint's letting himself be scented, if the goofy happy look on his face is anything to go by.

Clint leans away, and Steve follows when he moves, keeping contact, but letting him duck away to survey the scattered plastic mess. It's a miracle they haven't bruised a rib falling on something yet.

"So what's the game plan?" Clint asks. He's aware enough to realize that licking Steve would probably weird him out and might not count as an actual plan. "You and the beta parade come up with something?"

He's about to spiral back into it. He can tell. Steve's calming influence is about to turn back into a _fuck lick bite fuck_ influence. He's not sure if the gaps in the mind-losing are normal--something regular he can work around. He should probably have let Bruce give him that tutorial.

"Steve?"

Steve shoves the pile of plastic off the bed, and they hit the floor in a volley of dull thumps, then clatter or roll all over the place into the world's most debauched series of tripping hazards. Clint takes the opportunity of the fading heat lull to kick the rest the way out of his shorts before he ends up with them tangled around a foot all night. Even with the worst of the heat coming and going, he's not sure he's going to gather up enough sense for it again any time soon.

"Still here," Steve tells him, "No parade, though. Maybe next time." He's touching again, hand stroking down Clint's side and re-raising the goose bumps. He hadn't noticed when the chills had gone, but the touch makes him shiver again and makes him let his breath out in a long shaky exhale. It feels a bit like accelerating for takeoff.

" _Slow_ , Clint." It's in a warning tone. Like when Steve says, _hold fire_ , which means that he thinks Clint's got a say in it and should be at least be making an effort at getting a grip.

"Holding," Clint says, low. His instinct is to show submission, but his lack of experience is drawing a blank on how, exactly, to carry that plan out. He can't come up with any specific actions, and he can't fucking _think_ without more air. Going back to the not catching his breath problem, and all the air smells like Steve and like alpha anyway. The delay on his fuck-into-bonding-heat hasn't taken any of the rocket propulsion out of it, but Steve seems happy to sit back and let him make the moves, not doing more than steering until they end up on their sides and Clint's planting sloppy, stupid kisses anyplace where he can reach. 

At least Steve's doing a pretty good job of keeping him--mostly--on the level, soothing him back from the brink of mindless desperation into a holding pattern where he can at least get some functional thought back. Mostly though, the things he's thinking are pretty filthily unhinged. Or at least, Steve might think they are.

"Easy, easy," Steve's saying, one arm wormed around Clint's chest to hold him close, his other hand around Clint's wrist. "You do this, this time. Okay? I'll be here."

"That's--" _pervy_ he means to say, but his breath hitches just as he's about to and then it seems like too much trouble to pick the thought back up. It's a whole lot easier to let Steve guide his hand to himself so he can stroke his own cock while Steve kisses the back of his neck and makes stupid Tony-like snuffling noises into his hair.

Like before, getting himself off doesn't do anything but intensify the heat. Steve feels too hot against his back, but Clint keeps trying to squirm back into him anyway. He can feel Steve's hard against his ass, and Clint would normally be above begging, but he hears himself murmuring a long stream of, "Please, please, please, Steve, please." 

His hand on himself almost hurts, he's so sensitive, but stopping is worse. He can't imagine what relief would feel like anymore. There's _this_ \--heat and more heat, building up until he's sure he's just going to burn out like one of Tony's miswired robots--and maybe nothing beyond or after it.

He doesn't even hear the buzz until the toy is in his hand, and then he's not sure what to do with it or what the fuck Steve's handed him, until Steve takes it back and shifts him, just enough that he can push the tip of the thing against his hole.

"Fuck fuck fuck," Clint moans, thrashing, "Quit. Stop the--turn it _off_."

Steve does, and that's better. Not so overwhelming. Clint swallows hard a couple of times, then manages to reach with his free hand and get a grip on it, Steve thankfully steadying him. Fingers closing around his to keep him from dropping the toy and he's open and ready and slick as hell, but Steve only lets him take the thing a little at a time, letting it slide just a fraction deeper every time Clint rolls his hips back. And then it's in, and he's full and he can feel Steve's fingers against his rim, and _fuck_. 

He's just gone, reduced to that point of contact and the harsh drag of his own breath. 

Then Steve pulls the thing out--or he does. Clint's not entirely sure who's running what anymore--and it's too much and just right and he's terrifyingly empty, and then full again as it slides back in. 

"Good," he manages, struggling to form the word, but afraid Steve will stop, or make _him_ stop, "Good. It's good." If Steve turns the vibration back on, he's going to _die_ from it. Clint's pretty sure, but before it can matter, he's coming over his hand, silent because he can't get the breath to shout. 

Steve holds him, tight and close while he's still shuddering, rubbing off against Clint and coming in his pants, and that seems unfair to Steve, but Clint's limbs are too slack for him to do anything except go where Steve wants, and that's fine. Steve's great, and he smells like alpha, and if he wanted to bite Clint or mark him or _anything_ , really, that would okay. Would be nice. Would be--

"Are you gonna," Clint slurs, "knot me or something?"

He's not sure he's getting enough volume, because it takes Steve a while to answer, but when he does, it's by uncomfortably shifting away and making a little grunty noise. "A bit late for it," he says, after another few seconds, and Clint realizes he's got a hand on himself. Squeezing the swollen base of his cock because Clint's left him to sort himself out.

He's a fucking miserable omega, but the thought just makes him grin. He's a little giddy, and probably way more comfortable than he should be with the toy still seated inside him, but he feels settled. Suddenly easy in his skin again, even though he can tell the heat's not gone. 

It _has_ settled to a pleasant restlessness and he wishes Steve would stop whatever he's surreptitiously trying to do and lie close again, but it feel like too much work to tell him when Clint's so warm and relaxed and everything feels so fucking great.

"There's a--" Steve starts, then changes that to, "If you want a knot?" and touches Clint's hip. Delicately not anywhere near the button that would engage that, but Clint gets the drift and hums noncommitally. The idea doesn't suck, but he feels too good to want to tip the balance in any way. 

"Maybe later. If it's you. Don't wanna--Robo dick is too weird." And not much of a romantic image, either. Besides, the pressure he has is enough. 

Steve shifts close again, _finally_ , and Clint tips his head away to give him biting access. He's playing right into the purpose of the high-voltage first heat, throwing all his defenses wide open so that he's more than happy to let Steve do anything he damn well wants. Even if they're not tied together and he's not effectively pinned for Steve and the betas to bond with him and over him and fuck knew what. 

He'd expected a less fantastic kind of out-of-control. Something like a spiraling nose-dive, maybe, but he's surprisingly okay with _this_ helplessness, and Steve feels content and lazy, almost sprawled over him now, and it feels steadying and solid, even if he's just kissing Clint's throat and shoulder and applying tongue instead of teeth.

"Next time," Steve says, when Clint lets his breath out in a disappointed noise--that comes out more like a whine than Clint's willing to admit, "if you're sure that's what you want."

"Fine," Clint grumps, then adds, "I want Tony to tackle someone for me first, anyway."

\-----

Natasha loves being right, is what Natasha loves. Her lips are pushed into an amused bow, in a look that would give Tony's smirkiest grin a run for its money, but there's also something about it that says she can't decide between exasperation or laughter and this is the compromise. "How's the freakiness?" she asks, leaning over him with her elbows on the couch's backrest. 

"Freaky," Clint tells her, rallying enough to be difficult. He's not so far gone anymore that he can miss the beta congregation. Bruce will probably show up any minute to hang around and join the whole not-scenting-for-a-bond pretense. Natasha's at least doing it in a worried, sort of sympathetic way. 

Or maybe a self-conscious way, which might be part of why she's here and not hanging over and on Cap, who for some reason seems to be completely distracting to the _rest_ of the betas. Or at least, when they aren't busy strutting and flexing their new-found beta egos, like biology was something the two of them had invented in the lab and expected congratulations on.

The next time around, Clint might haul himself off to a hole in the desert, Banner-style, because watching it is a bit too much to have to deal with, on top of everything else.

"I'm living vicariously through Steve," Tony informs him, leaving Steve alone and sauntering over with way too much of a bounce in his step and more fakey-dance sway to his hips than might considered strictly dignified. He's acting a little hyperactive, and Clint would almost guess that Tony might have been hitting the bar or inhaling fumes down at Banner's workstation, except that _he's_ still thrumming with something that feels a lot like happy satisfaction. Enough electricity in his skin that he grunts unhappily when Tony reaches to stroke down his side. Like patting a dog. At least he doesn't decide to ruffle Clint's hair.

"Hang on, there. Hang on," Tony coos, obnoxiously jokey, but he's careful when he climbs over the back of the couch, and keeps his hands to himself as he lets Clint shift himself until he's got his head in Tony' lap. "So. Time to air Steve's dirty secrets? Comment on the play-by-play and decide you prefer betas?"

Tony seems really fucking thrilled with himself. Or maybe with the way Clint's folding so easily for him, still caught up in that easy-quiet-comfortable-safe feeling and with enough heat thrumming through him that Tony's hand stroking up and down his back is more than a bit distracting. It's nice enough that holding still for it seems like a way better plan than shoving an elbow into Tony's ribs and it takes a minute or two before Clint realizes that the low, happy noises he's hearing aren't coming from _Tony_. 

"We'll, you've either broken Hawkeye," Tony says, directing it away and sounding vaguely scolding. 

"I'm fine," Clint tells him, but squirms a little when Tony’s hand stills. Turning over so he's lying on his belly and can throw an arm around Tony's middle.

" _Perfectly_ fine," Tony agrees, "Or replaced by an impostor." His hand lifts and settles again, on the back of Clint's neck this time, and the unexpectedness of it makes Clint startle, but it also makes his breath leave in a long sigh. "You okay, Barton? I made you takeout."

He's great. Extra great now that there's real food and what was probably a Stark frying pan disaster he hopes someone will fill him in on as soon as he's processing more than every fourth word. "Fine," Clint says, and realizes absently that the patting thing's in reverse now except not really, because _Tony's_ not swatting him off, but just absently ruffling through his hair. For the viciously conniving, bottom-of-the-beta-hierarchy, Tony's kind of tending heavily to goofy noises and half-suppressed smug chuckles.

Clint squirms under Tony's petting, at low burn, and the pushy handsiness it's driving him to isn't something Clint really wants on Tony Stark's mental record, but he can't seem to help himself. Or to stop himself from making a low complaining noise when Tony grabs his wrist to pull out the hand Clint's snaked under his shirt, and then doesn't let him loose.

He rolls back a bit, so he can look up at Tony and try to catch a look at his face. "You want me to--?" He's not sure what to offer. Steve's busy in the kitchen, probably inhaling noodles, and not acting like he cares much about territoriality and beta insults to his authority. Even _with_ heat in the mix. 

"Settle down there, Eager Beaver. Steve's refueling his--well. Refueling." Tony adds a meaningful eyebrow wiggle, just in case there's any possibility that Clint's missing his innuendo. Tony gives his wrist a squeeze--Clint can't tell if it's meant to be a warning or emphasis, or _what_ \--and lets go. "And then you can get back to whatever it is naughty boys do when-- _well_."

Natasha bops him. Clint fucking loves her. 

Takes it back a little when Tony stops stroking his back to swat back at her. For beta rivalry in-fighting it's pretty weak and unthreateningly one-sided. It is kind of wrecking his buzz, though.

He's still slick--even if it's calmed down along with the desperation--and he's not sure why he's okay with them all being so close. In not-too-long, he's going to start being a hazard to the well-being of Tony's couch, or maybe even to Tony's suit. Or suit pants, anyway--the jacket abandoned somewhere, leaving Tony in rumpled shirt and a lopsided, pulled-loose tie. 

There's about a hundred things Clint could do with that, if he were a beta and felt a need to warn Tony off or thrash him good. Or if he was an omega who had any sense at all that things were about to go sideways. Instead, all the options coming to mind are somewhere along the lines of yanking Tony down and into kissing range, and he's not far gone enough anymore to not realize that trying it would put him at a tactical disadvantage.

Against Tony's smugness anyway. Against _Tony_ , there's not much point, because really, he'd given up on worrying about Tony's beta intentions the _first_ time Clint had crawled onto him on the couch.

Tony makes an amused sound when Clint decides _hell with it_ , and lets himself settle in. Tony's warm and comfortable and his scent is familiar and sending calm _it's okay, I belong here_ vibes. The whole this is pretty soothing, until Tony gently strokes over the suddenly much more sensitive spot at the base of his neck, and there's no damn way to hide the way that twists through his whole body like being touched with a live wire.

"Fuck. Fuck, Stark," Clint gasps, reaching to shove him away, then winds up hanging on instead. 

"Too much for you, Zero-to-Sixty?"

It takes a second for Clint to get level again, and then he carefully lets Tony go, relaxing again when Tony stays away from his neck, settling for scruffing through his hair instead. "Steve turned down my proposal," Clint tells him, by way of explanation, even though he's sure they can all smell the lack of a bond on both him and Steve, "I'm kinda--"

"Turned _down_ your proposal?" That's Natasha, sounding a little more distant. Maybe helping Steve vacuum his way through the food. It's a relief that the betas aren't clustering, even if it's _Nat_. There's touching and lingering and checking in, but it's a loose orbit, and not a goddamn feeding frenzy, thank god. 

It's not the end of his paranoid streak--that's kept him alive too long to be banished by Tony making dopey noises--but the quiet indignation in Steve's, "I said we should _talk_ about it," makes the quiet safe calm _pack_ feeling stir up again, settling him down even as Tony's hand moves away again.

"I don't know," Tony says, "all the decisions _I_ made in the heat of _heat_ were always _fantastic_."

\-----

The calmer feeling--if not the whole bizarre good vibes afterglow feeling--doesn't go. Not really. And Clint doesn't want to think too much about the fact that sex with Steve might have permanently reset his brain, but the feeling is still there when the melt-through-bones desperation part fades, leaving him feeling sore and achy with overused muscles, but clear-headed. Like after he's been out on a good run. 

"Not talking," he grunts, when Steve joins him in the kitchen, where he's slowly raising his caffeine levels back to something approaching acceptably normal. "Not filling out a report either."

Steve doesn't even look awkward about all the shit Clint's tried to do to him over the better part of the past week, filling his mug from the coffee pot Clint's practically wrapped himself around. "Didn't expect you to."

"Fine. Good."

Steve blows on his coffee, like a big kid, before taking a sip. Asks, "Was it as awful as you thought?" over the rim of the mug.

Clint's half tempted to say _yes_ , just to maintain his _unaffected by this shit_ even-keeled competence front, but he can't quite do that to Steve and his pleased-with-himself smile. He's clearly expecting a good review, but there's still a slight pinch of tension between his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. He's being a total shit to Steve.

"Guess not." Clint drags the pot back over and pours the remainder into his mug. Wrinkles his nose a little, trying to go for an expression that's part rueful, part distaste, "Kinda have that post-drunk _what the fuck did I say last night_ feeling, though." 

"Nothing too strange," Steve assures him, even though it's a pretty blatant lie.

"I'd blame lowered inhibitions," Clint tells him, "but then I'd have to admit to holding that... _stuff_ back the rest of the time." 

Steve takes a sip of his coffee, and the little wrinkle reappears between his eyebrows. "Changed your mind about the bond, then?" Clint can tell it's meant to be teasing, but there's something else in it. Maybe a sense of rejection. Or worry. It's hard to pin down exactly, with Steve.

Clint grunts. Tries to make it noncommittal and seems to succeed because Steve's reaction is to take another sip of coffee and say, "Right. Not talking."

"Yet. Okay?" Clint starts to pour more coffee, remembers the pot's empty and sets it back down. Frowns at it. "You'll have your debrief. Or compliment fishing session, or whatever you want to call it."

He can see Steve suppressing the grin. He kind of sucks at it. "So there's compliments coming?" 

Clint shrugs one shoulder. "I'm just--" waiting for things to settle. Trying to sort through the _good_ feeling that's still hanging around him and maybe around Steve, judging by the way his pleased little smile is back. "I need some downtime. Or quiet alone time. One of those." 

_If that's okay_ , dances on the edge of his tongue, more sincere than sarcastic, so Clint tamps it back and swallows the urge to ask for permission. 

"Sure," Steve says, giving it anyway, possibly out of instinct, possibly just as conversational response. Clint's not sure, but he feels better to have it. Less like he's running out on his alpha or issuing challenge to the pack. "I can stay out from underfoot." He grins. Gestures with his mug. "I can't make any promises about Tony, though."

"It was okay," Clint repeats his assurance, forgetting the coffee pot is empty again and pouring a trickle of sludge before putting it down in disgust and pushing it away. "I just need to get out and think."

Steve smiles. "Alright. Be careful."

Clint's not sure if that's a joke. He snorts anyway, just in case.

\-----

Getting away involves his bike and the outside of the city, and it's great to know that everything's back to normal and going to stay there for a while. When he gets back to the tower, sweaty and wind chilled at the same time but not smelling like he's going nuts thinking about jumping their good captain anymore, even Tony's gone back to what counts as an even keel, for Tony. 

"Hey, Rookie," Tony chirps at him when he stomps in, but miraculously doesn't touch, "Still maintaining your freak-out perimeter? I only ask in case Steve is just saying that so he can keep you for himself."

Clint dumps his bag and helmet in a corner, frowning. “No one's _keeping me_." 

"That's too bad," Tony smirks, then drops the innuendo to ask, more seriously, "Where've you been?"

"Around," Clint shrugs. "I had a phone." That part comes out a little testily, even though Tony's probably not hinting that he needs anyone's permission to take off on his own, or thinks he owes it to any of them to be summonable. Outside of Avengers alert sirens, at least.

"That was very sensible of you, Barton." Tony wanders over and brings a hand up to scruff his hair up. "This isn't me ignoring your no-go zone, by the way. This is just me being offended by your helmet hair."

"It was a long ride."

"To secret, undisclosed locations?" Tony steps back and gives him a critical look. Tugs a bit more at his hair, then makes a doubtful, head-bobbing gesture. Says, "Well. I guess it's how you _normally_ look. Or close enough." When he moves away, Clint moves after him. Stops. 

He's probably being confusing as hell, but before he can figure out just what he's communicating, Tony decides to just take the whole thing as a go-ahead and lays a hand against the side of Clint's face, patting in a way that's more joking than soothing or possessive, but that makes Clint relax anyway.

"I wasn't freaking out," Clint tells him, "You guys are great--"

"We're supposed to be great."

Tony being confident and charming is almost more effective than Tony being sulky and hurt and Clint smiles back a little before blocking Tony's hand. "It wasn't as bad as I thought."

"It's supposed to be not as bad as you think. It's supposed to be good, even. Do we need to go have a talk with Steve?"

Clint snorts. "Probably. But not the way I think you're thinking."

"Your other option," Tony says, not changing track, "is to hang with us. Me. Bruce. Whoever. _Combinations_."

"Steve's fine," Clint snorts, "I meant, about how to do this thing." He doesn't look at Tony. Makes himself busy with his jacket and maybe with scuffing at the tassels of the area rug, straightening them with the toe of his boot in what's probably the most transparent act ever. "If I have to be in heat to," he makes a vague gesture, "bond. Or whatever."

"Oh," Tony says. "You mean, _talk_ with Steve."

\-----

The answer to his question is yes. Bonding requires heat and alpha presence, which means he can do this with Steve and add betas later, which is a relief. 

"And Nat," Clint adds, slouching at the kitchen table, where all the awkward conversations happen. "Steve and Nat, I can handle." Or, actually, Nat might be weird as hell, but a lot of things he'd been through with Nat had been weird as hell. Not sexually inappropriate types of weird as hell, but still. 

"You're not worried some pack-hungry alpha wannabee will swoop in and bond Tony right out from under your nose?" Bruce asks, smiling a little. Just at the corners of his mouth. Clint's about had it with everyone being entertained by him.

"Not really," Clint says, in response to which Tony somehow manages to scowl and pout at the same time. 

" _Hey_. Fine, Barton. See if I want to be jumped into your weird gang."

That means _fucked_ into his weird gang. Or at least that's the assumption Clint's been operating on. He's starting to have some doubts about his assumptions. "If you want to veto, go right ahead. I'm not about to argue you out of your pants."

"Maybe not _yet_ ," Tony smirks, "But I'll work on you." 

That's circular enough that Clint can't come up with anything snappy on short notice and has to settle on scowling, which Tony takes as a sign of victory, but at least that makes him sit back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and looking smug, but shutting up.

"Ignore him," Bruce says, "The shine of people thinking he's taken down a SHIELD agent is fading and now he's just aware of not being the center of attention."

"That is _not_ true," Tony snaps, and twists around to tell the rest of the kitchen, "That's not true. I'm perfectly happy for Barton to be the soft gooey center." Then adds, as an after-thought, "I'm the bright candy shell, by the way."

"We got that." 

"Didn't I institute peace between you two?" Clint asks, pointing between them and going for weary patience, and hears Steve snort somewhere behind him. It's not clear if that's sympathy or sarcasm, so Clint chooses to ignore it, slouching in his chair until he realizes he's mirroring Tony and straightens back up, leaning forward onto his elbows instead.

"You don't have to do this," Steve puts in, "No one's going to," he pauses, then goes with Bruce's example, "abduct Tony--"

"Don't say that like no one wants to. I've been abducted _lots_ of times."

"Or put a deadline on this."

Right. Because they're registered. One big happy official go-team pack. "It's okay," Clint says, and shrugs one shoulder. Then kind of hunches when Steve drops a hand on his back.

The reaction doesn't make Steve pick his hand back up, though. Maybe he's realized that Clint's twitchy reflexes aren't driven by anything more than the memory of oversensitivity. Steve keeps his hand still long enough to let him realize there's no intense effect anymore and waits for him to relax before moving. It's still weird. Sort of. At least, it's weird to have Steve, of all people, giving him fond, gentle pats. 

"All in, right?" Clint asks, tilting his head back to direct it at Steve. "I mean. Might as well."

"If you want," Steve repeats. "You don't have to."

"Just give me the brief," he asks Bruce, "on how this works. Is it going to give any of you a direct line to my brain?" Because _that_ \--That he might have to veto, no matter how mopey Stark's face gets.

Bruce has the grace to not say, _I thought you had google_. "It's not _quite_ like that," he says, "Or at all, actually. We've got some time till," Bruce pauses. Makes a little gesture that's not really as politely vague as he probably thinks it is, waving his fingers at little to indicate Clint, and maybe Steve. "We'll talk." The _without the others hanging around_ is implied, and even though Tony catches it and gives Bruce a little side-eyed glare, Clint really would rather have that talk in private. Away from helpful suggestions and dubious Avengers-style attempts at emotional support.

"It's a date, doc," he says. "Just you and me and the internet." He does kick Tony a little under the table though, so he won't feel left out. 

"I don't want to be _might as well_ -ed in," Tony grumps, "You better _want_ us, Barton."

"Oh," Clint says, not smooth. Maybe even a little stupidly. "Okay."

\-----

It turns out he doesn't have to sex Natasha up. It's a little disappointing, even if he's also relieved that things can stay unchanged between them.

At least for a while. He might reevaluate if she keeps telling him stories about her sexy Russian all-girl assassin pack.

"I don't know if we were _sexy_ ," Natasha says, "We were awkward and new at it," and smiles at the way Steve's got an arm around him, soothing him through the aftershocks of a new bond. And okay, maybe Clint's not the most graceful omega, but he's not _awkward_.

"They were sweet," Natasha muses, laid out next to Steve and touching him instead of Clint, fingers teasing over his shoulder, "but there was a lot of fumbling."

"Stop," Clint complains, "You're gonna ruin my mental image."

\-----

Medic Sarcastic gives him a smug in-the-know look as he jogs up to her rig, and says, "Well, hey there, Hawkeye," in a tone that's disturbingly like Tony's wink-wink one. He doesn’t exactly smell like potential beta offense anymore, and he has no idea what she's making of that. Maybe that there's a lot of snappy comments she could be making, if she'd been more prepared.

"Are you here to kiss my booboos, provide commentary, or what is your job exactly?" Clint asks her, leaning a shoulder against the edge of the open rear bay.

"If that's all your booboos need, stop blocking my damn ambulance," she says, "Some of us have work to do around here."

She's not going anywhere, and Clint is mostly just waiting for the others to check in, even though he can tell over the comms that they're alright, so he doesn't clear off until Natasha comes wandering down the street, half talking to a comm feed Clint doesn't have an in on. 

"Bone to pick with ops?" Clint asks, when she's in non-tech assisted audio range. It turns out he _doesn't_ get to eavesdrop on her thought processes, but he _can_ feel a weird buzz he thinks of as a combination of _Nat_ and _pissed_. 

"Bone to pick with the medical staff?" Natasha returns, smiling to take any bite out of it. She has a scrape over her cheek on one side, that the medic moves to swab with antiseptic because the seriousness of the injury means her job is really key right now.

"Nah. Just providing entertainment on this slow day where none of us are smashed, crushed," Clint lets it trail off, then offers, "I could help hand out band aids?" It comes out more obnoxious than he means it to. He diverts by saying, "Cap's coming in."

Nat smiles, still holding her hair back with one hand. To keep it from sticking back to her scrapes. 

"Right," Clint says, "Right. You can tell. Fine. Don't laugh."

He can see Steve down at the end of the street, with Tony nowhere in sight, but Thor's a spot of red cape just a bit further down and somewhere, Hulk's already shrunk back into Bruce Banner, because Clint can hear him muttering quietly about pants over the comm. It's unclear if that's because Bruce needs some or is happy to find he still has some, but he sounds like he's alright. Maybe there'll be a tactical advantage once he's added everyone to the club. Some kind of Avengers GPS and basic condition reporter.

The sound of Tony's repulsors pass over head as he shoots off, which is everyone alive and accounted for and probably not in need of patch-up. That means they can get out of there and go home sooner instead of later, if he can tear Natasha away from her humorous-looks exchange with SHIELD's worst bedside manner.

Or battleside manner. Whatever.

"You need a pamphlet or something, Hawkeye?" she asks, as Natasha makes weird faces to test the stickiness of the bandage glued to her face. 

Clint gives her a look. 

"It's okay," he says. "I think I've got this."


End file.
